


Möbius

by shinigami_yumi



Series: Möbius-verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complete, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Psychic Bond, Sassy, Sastiel - Freeform, Season 8, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinigami_yumi/pseuds/shinigami_yumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the completion of the first trial, Sam and Dean run into a powerful witch. Meanwhile, Castiel escapes Heaven after bringing Samandriel's vessel back and rejoins them. In their fight with the witch, Naomi's hold on Castiel is broken, but the brothers have to find a way to keep it that way. Amidst their troubles, Sam and Castiel find solace in each other, but their time is cut short when Naomi sends another angel to track the Angel Tablet Crowley is closing in on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Möbius

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow always end up writing fic instead of studying for finals, so here goes my first fic in this fandom. I started writing this before Goodbye Stranger aired, and after it did, I decided to stick to the practical end result of the episode. In effect, I guess this is an AU of episodes 15 and 16, and a rewrite of sorts of 17 in which I kept the essential elements that I could (and made it totally a Sastiel episode).
> 
> Much thanks goes to [Meinarch](http://sassypancakes.tumblr.com) for the beta amidst all the work we both had due and for practically writing Dean for me. I find him very difficult to write, and I can only hope I got the other characters right too. I look forward to reading your feedback on this. _Italics_ denote either thoughts or emphasis; which should be apparent from context.
> 
> I also commissioned a friend of mine, [Luria](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Luria), to draw some lovely art for this fic, which Meinarch has turned into the equally lovely banner you see below. Clicking the image will take you to the full NSFW piece with Luria's dA contact information, but you can also PM her at her AO3 account if you're interested in her work.

[ ](http://i3.photobucket.com/albums/y64/shinigami_yumi/JaredampMisha_edit2_zps5f4c89de.png)

The first bar Dean comes across walking from the motel is called the Rosen Gold. It’s not his kind of turf, but there isn’t another within sight, and the surly lady at the reception desk told him that the next one’s three blocks away. He takes a peek through the door and immediately frowns in distaste — live jazz. It’s a classy lounge affair, all red velvet and polished mahogany, every member of the staff clad in dressy black and carrying themselves with stuffy sophistication. He’s about to blow the joint and walk the requisite three blocks when he spies the pool tables in the back and finds they’re not deserted.

There are three men playing, all of them likely in their late twenties, an arrogant set to their shoulders. He makes his way to the bar, moving in closer to size them up. Might be worth a hustle yet. They’ve lost the ties and jackets, even popped a few buttons, but the clothes are new, expensive, part of a set. One has his sleeves rolled up — shiny watch. Another signals for a round, for them and the girls hanging off their arms, and the bartender reaches for a bottle — scotch, top shelf. From the way the third takes his turn, the lady leaning over to watch is more interesting than the game.

 _Guess I’m spared a three-block walk tonight,_ Dean thinks, barely suppressing a smug grin as he takes his beer with him. If he’s lucky, he might be able to walk out with his pockets significantly fuller when the night is done.

Several hours later and nearly a thousand dollars richer, Dean feels ready to celebrate. The yuppies leave with disgruntled looks on their faces, but do little more than grumble amongst themselves, much to his relief. He heads over to a booth and falls gracelessly into the plush seat, ordering another beer and turning to find that one of the ladies who’d been with them at the pool tables had followed him over. Her eyes are a shifting mix of green and brown, her long auburn hair falling about her sweet face and shapely figure in waves. Dean flashes her his best grin.

“Hey there, beautiful. Not taking off with the boys?”

She smiles, her plum-tinted lips luscious, and slides in beside him to cross her legs on the table. “Well, thanks to you, big boy, they can’t afford me anymore.”

“Ouch,” he deadpans, taking a swig of his new beer, and puts on his best not-quite-apologetic smile. “Well, no offense, babe, but you’re not my type.”

She settles back against the seat and tilts her head. “Really?” Something about the way she sets her shoulders, the slight duck of her head and the twinkle in her big eyes reminds him of a younger Sam. “Could’ve fooled me with those eyes.” That is if Sam were the flirtatious type. She leans in a little closer to whisper conspiratorially, putting her cleavage within his direct line of sight. “Tell you what — buy me a drink, and I’ll call it even.”

“That,” he tips his head and winks. “I can do.”

He signals the waitress who brought his beer over. To his surprise, she only signs for another of what he’s having.

“You got a name?” he asks as he drinks another gulp.

“Why, changing your mind over my taste in beer?” she drawls teasingly. Smart ass too. “Elka.”

He gives her another flirty once-over as he drinks. “Nah, can’t let all my hard work go to ‘affording you’ tonight, Elka. Got bills to pay, people to keep and all that, y’know?”

“Ooh.” She grimaces. “You sure know how to wound a girl’s pride.” She stands, swiping her beer as she swings her feet off the table in a fluid motion. “Well, in that case, I’m gonna need to recast my line. Ta-ta~”

He lifts a hand and waggles his eyebrows in farewell as she turns to leave, then turns back to his beer.

Suddenly, there’s a cloud of red smoke in his face, and he can’t feel his body. Elka catches him as he falls. “Whoa, easy there, big boy,” she coos, propping him up against the back of the seat and leaning in till her lips are ghosting over his. “Wish you could have done this the easy way, hunter.”

And Dean’s last thought is, _Shit. Sam!_

~*~

White.

Fear.

Pain.

White.

A flash, and he doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s saying words he doesn’t believe.

A blade is pressed into his hands, and there’s a moment of clarity.

Sam. Dean.

Crowley. Samandriel.

Samandriel screams. The agony sears his ears, sears his Grace.

A drill, a flash, and he can’t remember.

The next thing he knows is freeing Samandriel.

Outside, Samandriel begs him not to take them back, tries to tell him about Them. About a Naomi controlling them.

That’s right. Naomi.

White.

Fear.

He fights it, fights it with every fibre of his being. No. No. He can’t let it win.

Pain flares white hot, and Samandriel is dead, his Grace shattered, and his blade is in his hand.

No. No, no, no.

 _NO._ He screams in horror, but no sound escapes.

His lips are moving, but he doesn’t recognize the words he’s telling Sam and Dean. “Stay away!” he tries to yell at them; he’s dangerous like this. But he can’t. Then he’s gone.

White.

Fear.

Pain.

He fights, he runs, he doesn’t recognize the screaming, and then it’s dark.

He blinks up at the stars glittering in the night sky.

He’s back on Earth.

Right. He must warn Sam and Dean.

He fumbles for his cellphone, but it’s nowhere to be found. He can’t find the Winchesters unless they pray for him these days; locating them had taken so long when he first found himself back from Purgatory, and even that had been possible only because Sam —bless the younger hunter and his unwavering faith— never stopped praying. But Sam isn’t praying at this precise moment, so for the lack of a better option, he heads toward the neon lights in the distance.

A light drizzle starts up, and he thinks to find shelter, but as he keeps going, the cool droplets even begin to feel soothing. He closes his eyes, turning his face towards the sky, letting his feet carry him forward along the empty road. They are not chasing him yet, thankfully, and he can only pray he’ll make it to Sam and Dean’s side without Them catching him again. He has a theory, that They find him using the subtonic frequencies that they use to communicate, and if he consciously shuts these frequencies out, tamps down on his Grace to go as close to radio silent as possible and avoids drawing Their attention by using his powers, it might be possible to remain under Their radar. Still, at some point, he will be forced to use some of his abilities, and what if They find him then? What if They force him to harm Sam and Dean like They made him kill Samandriel?

_No, the Winchesters need to be wary of me. Should They wish Sam and Dean harm, They will use me to inflict it. I have to warn them about ME._

The clarity brings a renewed sense of urgency, and his steps quicken involuntarily even as the rain grows heavier. He’s close to drenched by the time he sees it — a bus stop with a phone booth beside it. _That should suffice._ He enters the phone booth and lifts the phone to his ear, dialling Dean’s number with a thought. He waits and waits as it rings, but no one picks up, and it goes to voicemail. Frowning, he switches to Sam’s. The younger Winchester picks up on the second ring.

~*~

They’re heading to a job in Pensacola. Six people had gone missing in the past month, all from the beach, and the first of those had just washed up. No water inside, no signs that he had drowned, no decay. Just washed up one day in near perfect condition with a tinge of blue to his skin and very, very dead. Definitely their kind of gig.

They’d been driving for days when they hit Covington, and Sam had finally convinced Dean to stop for the night because sleeping in the car was giving him cricks in his neck and making neither one of them less tired. Dean, of course, had decided to make the stop count — they were short on cash, which for them meant hitting the pool tables, and there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good night in a town without a job. Sam, however, just wants some food and a good night’s sleep, which is how he found himself walking into the nearest cafe, an organic bistro.

The waitress —a petite strawberry blonde with a pleasant demeanour; her tag says her name is Angie— tries to flirt with him, but he’s too tired to do much more than smile back and order a pear and walnut grilled chicken salad and a coffee. He’s going to need the caffeine to stay awake long enough to make it back to the motel. She tries again when she brings him his order, and he apologizes for his exhaustion as if he would otherwise be interested. It brings an understanding smile to her sweet face —”It’s okay. I know the feeling”— and she leaves him to his food. He sighs, digging in. With everything that’s happened —Amelia, Dean, the trials, the Men of Letters—, he’s just not in the mood.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Em!” the guy at the next table insists loudly, catching Sam’s attention.

He looks up. They look to be a couple — a girl with chestnut hair in a ponytail and the brunet that made the earlier outburst, both in their twenties and dressed in sweatshirts and jeans.

“C—Come on, Ray. Here, take a listen.” She presses her wrist to his ear and holds his wrist to her own. “I can hear yours. Can you hear mine?”

“No, but it’s not that easy to hear from the wrist anyway.”

“What about last night?” she challenges, but she looks scared, her pale skin clammy with the sheen of cold sweat, and Sam can’t help his curiosity, paying attention even as he continues eating.

Ray hesitates before answering, worry creasing his brow. “O—Okay, yeah, that was pretty weird, but you know you’re perfect, right?” He covers her hands with his own. “Emily?”

“God, Ray, that’s not the point,” she groans, ducking her head.

“But that’s crazy talk, baby. You know that isn’t possible.”

Sam is jolted out of listening to this bizarre conversation by his cellphone ringing. He hurriedly fishes it out of his pocket and checks the number. It is unknown. Could be someone calling about a job.

“Hello?” He tries to sound a little less tired than he feels.

“Hello, Sam.”

Suddenly, he’s as wide awake as he’s ever been, his exhaustion gone as if chased away by a rush of pure adrenaline.

“Cas?” The angel never calls him. He always calls Dean.

“I can’t reach Dean,” Castiel states flatly, confirming Sam’s assumption that he must have tried.

“Yeah, he’s... busy. Where are you? What happened to your phone?” Sam knows he sounds panicked, flustered, but after what happened with Samandriel, he can’t help but worry. There is nothing Castiel regrets more than the sheer number of his siblings whose blood he spilled. He wouldn’t have killed Samandriel, _especially_ not in self defense, never mind that Samandriel wasn’t in any condition to be attacking anybody at the time. It’s not that Sam doesn’t trust Cas —he does, he really does—, but something’s really not right presently, and he can’t decide whether it’s more helpful to keep their distance or try to fix things.

“Missing. There’s no time. Where are you?”

There’s an urgency to Castiel’s voice that has him rattling off the address of the cafe before he can really think about it, and the line goes dead before he can wonder if he’ll regret it. Then there’s an angel in the seat across from him, hands folded on the table, before he has even fully registered the flutter of unseen wings. Fortunately, as usual, no one seems to notice.

“Cas! Are you okay?” he asks without preamble, the remains of his salad half-forgotten.

Castiel tilts his head in that familiar quizzical gesture. “Sam. Why would I be not okay?”

The earlier urgency he heard is gone. Something’s definitely off.

And he hates that Dean is right, that it’s never just a good thing, not for them, and they can’t just have Castiel back, safe and complete with them, finally.

Sam reaches out to cover the angel’s hands with his left one as he mentally flails for the right way to broach this, to get the information he wants without making it seem like he’s suspicious. Partial honesty, he decides, and looks straight into what are still the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, letting the full force of his concern show.

“I just... You know, what happened with Samandriel...”

Castiel’s reaction is somewhere between stiffening and flinching, almost imperceptible if not for the contact, and Sam feels his heart sink when those blue eyes slip out of focus.

The angel has always been hard to read. Hard, but not impossible. Sam still can’t tell what Cas is feeling at the best of times, and he thinks it may be because the angel still isn’t sufficiently in tune with human emotion or in sync with his vessel to show it, but that’s exactly what makes it possible to read what little Sam can: Castiel doesn’t know what to hide.

To be fair, Sam has spent years mentally cataloguing all his subconscious tells, every little twitch of muscle that lets something, _anything,_ slip. So perhaps he just knows what to look for now.

“I regret that he came at me like that,” the angel tells him quietly, looking like he doesn’t know what he’s saying. “Our numbers are small enough as they are.”

Sometimes, Sam hates being right. It’s mind control.

He squeezes Castiel’s hands, both to comfort and to draw the other’s attention. “Cas, what happened?”

Blue eyes flicker, a moment’s focus that slips away again, and the hands in his jerk as if in some hastily aborted motion. “I told you. H—”

“I mean in Heaven.” As soon as he’s spoken, Sam realizes it sounds like suspicion. “What was it like?” he amends, schooling his tone and expression into one of genuine curiosity. “Was there... a funeral?”

Cas blinks at him, looking lost and confused. “Funeral? No... Angels don’t really..."

Suddenly, Cas grabs his hand with shocking urgency, his blue eyes intense. “Sam. I n—”

“I need to go.” Just like that, it’s gone.

Sam catches both of the angel’s wrists, swallowing his panic. “No. No, you can’t.” If someone is controlling Cas, then he can’t tell Cas anything. They can probably read the angel’s thoughts. “Dean,” he says instead. For a moment, he fumbles for some excuse, any excuse. “He should have called back by now.” It doesn’t make that much sense. “I tried earlier. Before you called,” he lies. “Even if he was busy then, he would have called back by now. He could be in trouble.”

There is the barest shift in body language, Cas tilting his head almost imperceptibly. As if he’s listening to something.

Shit.

The remaining holy oil is in the trunk. Sam hates that he’s thinking of resorting to that.

This is his fault.

If only he hadn’t let Lucifer in, Cas wouldn’t have had to take on his madness, and maybe he would never have broken enough for anything to slip in. Purgatory could only have made it worse.

“Okay,” Cas says, but there’s still that disorientation in his eyes.

“Okay?” Sam echoes, his turn to be confused.

“We find Dean,” the angel clarifies, standing.

Sam hastily downs his coffee as he stands, fishing out his wallet to drop more than enough cash to cover the bill onto the table. He doesn’t think Dean will welcome the intrusion into his night out, but they can’t let Cas leave, not until they’ve figured things out. He doesn’t know who or what can control an angel’s mind like this, but he reckons the list of entities with both the juice and the know-how are probably very short. Maybe... Maybe they won’t have to use the holy oil for very long.

~*~

Sam is sitting across from him, and his hand is warm where they touch. Concern, comfort. He can’t remember coming here, can’t remember what he was supposed to say.

“You know, what happened with Samandriel..."

Samandriel.

That’s right — Naomi. He tries to reach out, to tell the hunter to bind him before he can harm anyone, before he can harm _them_. He grabs Sam’s hand. “Sam. I n—”

 _No._ White hot agony flares. _NO,_ he thinks as hard as he can. _I can’t leave. Not if Dean could be in trouble. They’d be suspicious. They’d think I’m betraying them. Again. They’d hunt me. I wouldn’t be able to come back. No._

To his surprise, they’re in the parking lot together.

Maybe They agreed. Maybe They want Dean alive. Maybe They want him with the Winchesters.

Maybe his being here is important.

 _So I can help them, but I cannot warn them,_ he concludes, dread settling in. _If so, I must leave as soon as we find Dean._ He blinks. _No... I cannot... leave them..? I must protect them._ Of course. Anything for that.

They’re walking towards the row of shops to the left when Sam clears his throat. Castiel thinks he’s about to speak, but then, the hunter suddenly gags and leans over the grass on the sidewalk to choke up whatever’s stuck in his throat. The metallic tang of blood cuts cleanly through the night air, and Cas doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t ask why Sam didn’t mention he was hurt, just steps closer and tries to fix it. He feels it work, feels it begin to unravel again, and his relief turns to worry.

“Sam? What have you done?”

Olive eyes dart to him, and there’s a flash of... pain? And he suddenly realizes he shouldn’t have asked. _No,_ he wills the other, backing away, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples as he shakes his head. _Don’t tell me. Don’t tell Them how to hurt you._

Agony flares white in his head again, and he staggers. “Sam,” he hears himself saying. “What d—”

Abruptly, a hand snakes out to catch his wrist. “Cas.”

The intent — _Stop. Just stop._ — is firmer than the grip, and he reflexively meets Sam’s eyes, loses whatever train of thought he’d been on. He blinks at the familiar steel resolve.

“I’m fine, I swear.” Pulling him along, Sam starts walking again. “Let’s find Dean.”

~*~

The light is dim when Dean blinks awake. He’s chained to a plush divan, comfortable but unable to move. All around him are thick velvet curtains. He can’t see anything beyond them.

He’s been gagged too. _Son of a bitch,_ he thinks. 

He starts to struggle, but then there’s the sound of a door opening and two distinct sets of footsteps. He stills, tense. One strides, sure but languid, the sharp clack of heels muffled by the carpet. The other’s steps are small and hesitant, shoes scuffing on the carpet.

“I just need a name and photograph, love. It’s just as you heard.” It’s Elka. The witch, Dean thinks. He recognizes her voice, her flirty drawl.

“A—And then she’ll love me?” It’s unsure, barely above a whisper, a younger girl’s voice.

There is the sound of cushions compressing — they are sitting down.

“She could,” the witch agrees. “But to have love, dear, you must give your heart away. Will you?”

“I... Of course. I already have.”

“Good. Then she will.”

“NNGH!!” Dean tries to scream through the gag for the girl to stop, but it comes out as little more than a muffled grunt. It’s never that simple. There is always a price, always more than one can pay. _Always._ And wouldn’t he know best? He struggles valiantly against the chains.

“What was that?” the girl asks, afraid.

“My submissive,” Elka answers without missing a beat.

Green eyes widen in shock. _What the fucking hell?!_ He continues struggling, trying to free a hand, a leg, anything. No way in Hell he’s staying around for this. He needs to escape, needs to get back to Sam, his Sammy who didn’t even know there was a job in town.

 _Shit._ What if they found him? His baby brother had always had a thing for dangerous women.

Just then, the world slides sideways.

~*~

The closest establishment in the correct industry is a posh-looking lounge called the Rosen Gold. It’s not the kind of place his brother prefers, but since the nearest alternative is three blocks away, and the Impala is parked back at the motel, Sam’s going to wager that Dean at least looked. He walks in, Cas following close behind, and scans the room quickly.

Pool tables, check — possible.

Dean is nowhere in sight, but there are curtained booths, and a second floor, which Sam assumes is for private rooms. There is no way to check every occupied booth and room without attracting undue and embarrassing attention. Sam runs a hand through his hair as the live band starts another slow jazz piece and pauses to think with his hands on his hips.

“Damn it.” He heads back outside into the cool night air to keep from drawing any unnecessary attention. “Now what do we do? If we ask for him, it could alert someone that he has friends. We can’t go around searching every booth and room.”

“Wait here.”

He whirls around in alarm. “W—Cas!”

But the angel is already gone.

“Fuck.”

He fidgets, mind running furiously through every worst case scenario. What if Cas doesn’t come back? What if the people controlling him make him hurt Dean? What if Dean is perfectly fine, and he finds no missed calls and reveals that Sam lied? What if Dean really is in trouble, and they are ill-equipped or too late to rescue him? What if Dean isn’t even here, and they have to trek all across Covington to find him before they can do anything about helping Cas? Wh—

A beat of wings, and he turns hurriedly to find Castiel holding Dean steady as the hunter gains his footing and rips the gag out of his mouth.

“Dean!”

“Son of a bitch! I fuckin’ hate witches!”

Well, that’s unexpected.

“How many?” Sam asks, quickly recovering from his surprise.

“Far as I can tell, just the one. She’s selling love spells.”

“Let’s get out of here before anyone notices you’re gone.” They start briskly walking away.

“I’ll get the stuff from the trunk. You buy the chicken feet and whatever else we’re missing. We meet back at the motel and cook us up some witch-ganking Molotov.”

Dean barking orders is a good sign, means he feels like himself.

“Right. Cas, why don’t you come with me, so you can zap us back to the motel as soon as we have the stuff?” Sam suggests, glad that Dean has yet to ask how they knew to find him.

Castiel doesn’t answer, just lets Sam take his wrist and shifts closer. It’s a logically sound idea, after all, no matter the reason.

Green eyes snap to his, and they share a look.

_He’s been sketchy since he came back, Sam. — I know, Dean. Later. Let me handle this._

Dean is reluctant, worried, but he nods. “Watch yourselves.”

“Yeah, man, you too.”

~*~

An hour later, they have the potion, and Castiel has yet to do anything out of the ordinary; he’s even lost that zoned out look in his eyes and is asking questions about the witch. Sam would be relieved, but there’s still no way to tell when the next episode will hit, what might trigger it or what they’d make Cas do. More than anything, Sam is afraid that the puppeteers will break his friend again by forcing him to commit unforgivable horrors against his will, that they’re all going to fall careening out of this ordeal with no more pieces left to pick up, and he will never be ready to see Castiel half mad and begging for penance any way he can get it all over again. He’s dying —he knows it—, Dean is convinced closing the gates of Hell is a suicide mission for them both, and Cas isn’t himself. At this rate, he doesn’t think they’ll survive.

“Dean. What is the price?” That deep quiet voice brings him out of his anxious reverie.

“Nothing good.”

Sam looks at his brother, and the bitchface must have said it all because Dean immediately snaps, “Look, it wasn’t clear, okay? But from what I heard, I’d wager hearts.”

“Hearts?” Sam echoes, incredulous. “Like, literally hearts?”

“Yes.” As if he could possibly have meant it metaphorically. “She’s a witch, Sam, not a fucking Valentine teddy! And she wasn’t naked or trying to hug people!”

Castiel frowns and looks at Dean as if to say it’s obvious without him saying that the lady is not a Cupid. It comes across much like “You’re stupid.” Sam mostly succeeds at hiding his chuckle, but Cas looks too obviously pleased at being intentionally funny for a change; Dean just intensifies his glare at them both, but there’s the barest twitch to his lips, giving away the smile he was trying to smother.

And in that moment, it all _clicks_.

They’re _family_.

Not defined, not normal, just _perfect_.

And Sam wouldn’t change that for the world.

No, he tells himself, they can do this. The three of them together, just like this, even managed to avert the Apocalypse that God planned. The trials are the trials, and he can’t change how Dean thinks, but there has to be a way to free Castiel. There _must_ be. He’ll find it, no matter what it takes.

“Wait,” Sam cuts in, remembering something important. “If she’s taking hearts... Dean, we haven’t heard of any deaths with missing hearts in this town. Maybe it’s something else?”

“Like what? Come on, man. Witches and their body parts and bodily fluids.” Dean shudders theatrically.

“Perhaps she keeps them alive with magic,” Castiel suggests, and Dean puts on his best _See? I told you so_ face.

“Okay, so maybe it’s part of the deal.” Sam starts pacing, gesturing with his hands. “What’s the point of a love spell if you’re dead before you get to have the love of your life, right? So... what if Cas is right?” _The couple from the cafe back there... shit._ “What if, as soon as we gank her, a whole bunch of heartless people are going to drop dead right where they stand?”

“Damn it!” Dean sits down abruptly on the bed, punching the mattress vehemently.

Sam finally drops onto the second bed, flopping back gracelessly. “So now what?”

“Well, we can’t let her keep making these deals; that’s for sure. It’s gotta have an expiration date.”

“I could... put her to sleep,” Castiel volunteers quietly, studying his hands for a moment before looking up. “For a long time. The existing magic will remain active, and she’ll be unable to work any new spells.”

Sam sits up, brightening considerably. “Hey, that works. We could keep her locked up until she wakes up, and then put her back to sleep again.”

“Great!” Dean slaps his knees enthusiastically, rising and grabbing the bottle of witch-killer. “So you pop us outside the room, and we go in guns blazing to distract her while you creep up behind her and knock her out! Bam!! What are we waiting for?”

For a moment, Sam wonders if it has completely slipped Dean’s mind that Cas isn’t quite himself, but then Dean levels the _You got a better idea?_ look on him, and he has to concede the point. He takes a deep breath. Cas is already walking towards them, hands extended, and Sam feels a moment of guilt for searching the angel’s gaze. _Still with us. Okay. Good._ He closes his eyes, feels the touch and shift, and opens them to a door in an unfamiliar corridor. They nod, and Cas vanishes. Another nod, this time at each other, and they kick in the door.

~*~

Two millennia is a long time to be alive, and Elka has put the time to decidedly good use. To be sure, she knows a hunter when she sees one, and only one species does wingbeats and ozone. She didn’t think she’d ever hear that sound again, what with the Abrahamic Apocalypse having come and gone, but it is unmistakable, and there’s nothing quite like an angel to cramp your style if you’re not officially human. Of course, the ingredients for the potion are hard to come by, but she’d always been a firm believer that one should never stinge on personal safety, and conveniently, what remains of one of the major components is currently waiting in a different bowl. Bottling the finished potion in single dose vials, she whispers the Enochian activation spell over the rim of each vial before corking it and setting it down on the table.

“Mm,” she murmurs with satisfaction. “Time for dinner.”

Switching out the bowls, Elka lifts her beating prize reverently.

Fresh out of the chest.

The incantation is old, Sumerian, and the ritual simple, a prayer. Everyone appreciates sacrifice — only the how depends on the who. It pulses against her lips, and she closes her eyes to savour the taste of life, of love, as she bites in, letting the sweet rush flow over her tongue. The evening star presses it in, steals her breath, and it thrums down her throat like the song of a lapis flute.

Perfection.

She’s about to lick the blood off her fingers when the door bursts in.

Elka whirls around; it’s the escaped hunter. “I thought you might return,” she drawls with a smirk, waving her hand to send them flying into the wall. “I see you even brought a plus one.”

They struggle against the invisible hold, exchanging glances.

“How long do you give them?” the new face asks.

“Ooh, smart cookie. I could learn to like you.” She waggles her eyebrows, plucking the potion out of the first’s hand. “Well, if you care about that, then you won’t be needing this. If I die, they die, of course.” She tosses the bottle out the open window behind her before turning back to them, leaning her hip against the table. “But to answer your question, how long they have is entirely in their hands. Why does anyone want a love spell?” She pauses, shrugging carelessly. “Some ask out of love, some out of greed, others for a variety of other reasons. Whatever that reason is, when they lose it, that’s when their time’s up.” Her smile turns wistful. “Fitting, is it not? You have the love you desire until you want it no longer.”

In a way, Sam has to admit that it’s the fairest supernatural deal he’s ever heard of. It doesn’t make it right, of course, but using magical means to gain a person’s love is neither right nor fair either.

“So why the hearts, Elka? That what you were eating when we came in?” Dean asks, still struggling against her hold. “Fancy yourself some fresh and pumping human delicacy?”

Elka laughs then. “As a matter of fact, I do!” She licks the blood off her fingers. “Keeps me young, makes me strong..." Suddenly, Castiel appears behind her, and she ducks swiftly out of his reach, swiping a vial from the table and breaking it on him in a cloud of purple fumes. “Makes me fast.”

“CAS!!” the brothers yell in unison as the angel falls to his knees, choking.

The witch sends a ball of electric blue energy hurtling into him, and he gasps in pain. “Thought I heard wings earlier. Figures you couldn’t have escaped like that without some help, hm?” She twirls, moving aside and waving a hand at Castiel who climbs unsteadily to his feet. “See, you learn a few things in a thousand years, and one is that, with the right tools, divine immunity is in extremely short supply.”

“What did you do to him, you crazy old hag?!”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly at Dean. “Still so rude. You wound me. For that, I think I’ll have your feathery friend here do the honours, hm? Nothing like a good tragedy to make the heart sweeter~”

Settling into a nearby plush settee, she tilts her head, and Castiel walks towards him.

“Cas? Cas! Come on, man. You just gonna be some hag’s bitch now?”

But Cas doesn’t stop walking, and Sam doesn’t think he can hear them. Helplessly, he tries the only way he knows how to always, always reach their angel: he closes his eyes and prays. _Castiel. Come on, I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Please. You don’t want to do this, Cas. Fight it!_

“Hmm?”

Sam looks up. As if by some miracle, Castiel has halted his advance.

“Ooh, what’s this?” The witch extends her hand, excitement written all over her face, and blue energy crackles around the angel. “Fascinating! It seems something else already has a hold on this one!”

Dean would probably call him a hopeless girl for being disappointed.

She hums. “I wonder who’s stronger... me or them?”

Castiel turns to face her, and her brows furrow in concentration as more blue sparks arc across Jimmy Novak’s body. He takes a step closer to her and staggers, groaning in pain. Elka grins; it has been centuries since she’s had to push herself, and it is exhilarating despite the strain. Another step, and she releases her hold on the hunters to focus her full power on the command spell.

Dean immediately lunges forward, but Sam grabs him. “No. Wait! We don’t know what could go wrong if we interfere!”

“We don’t know what will happen if we don’t!” Dean protests, struggling against him.

“Dean, no! Wait. Just wait!” He pins his brother down with his considerable bulk. “It’s too dangerous! You could get us all killed!” And maybe, just maybe, this could work in their favour.

Perhaps the command magic will cancel the existing mind control out.

The angel is enveloped in the blue light now and looks to be caught in a tug of war between two equally matched forces. The witch mutters under her breath and moves towards the table. Snatching up a vial just like the first, she hits him with it, and he grips his head in his hands as he chokes on the fumes. Castiel screams over the hum of energy in the air —pain, frustration, maybe both— as blood begins flowing out of his right eye in rivulets like tears, glowing brightly with the blue light, and it takes a supreme exercise of willpower to not try to help, to keep from rushing to his side or letting Dean attack the witch.

 _Please, God, let this work, let him survive this,_ Sam prays silently, holding Dean down and burying his face in his brother’s shoulder because he can’t watch this.

Suddenly, something snaps in the air, and both Winchesters barely have time to look up before the witch gasps, and Castiel is lunging at her. She’s not the one screaming when he smites her, however, and they collapse to the floor together. Sam is catching the angel before he’s even registered moving, and Dean has to catch him when Castiel shoves him away roughly.

“Get away from me!! I—aAAHH!!!”

Cas doubles in on himself, breath coming in short gasps, still gripping his head tightly enough to hurt in his hands, tears of blood staining the body, the trench coat, the carpet.

“Sammy!”

“Cas!” He disengages his brother’s hold on his shoulders, murmuring, “Dean, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Darting forward on instinct, Sam grabs the angel’s shoulders. “Cas, look at me.” He shakes him. “Come on, look at me!” Bloodshot blue eyes flick up to his face, and he smiles reassuringly. “That’s it. Stay with me, Cas. Fight it. Fight Them,” he whispers urgently, tightening his grip.

Dean seizes Castiel’s face in his hands and turns him, so they can look each other in the eyes. “Listen, Cas, you can’t let those motherfuckers win,” he insists, kneeling beside him. “We’re in this together, remember? Don’t you dare give up on us, damn it!”

Pale fingers curl in dark hair, and every glass object in the vicinity shatters, plunging the room into darkness, as the angel screams in agony, sagging against them.

“No. NO,” he gasps. “What have you made me do... Nothing is worth this, NOTHING. NNGH!!!”

“CAS!!!” They exchange glances. Dean tilts Castiel’s face up again.

“No, no.” He pushes at them weakly with his left hand. “Stay away from me. I can’t—”

“No, don’t say that. Don’t you fucking say that to me, Cas! Stay with us, damn it!!” Sam grabs the hand pushing them away and presses it to his heart unthinkingly. “Let me help you. Please.”

“Sammy? No.”

Brilliant blue eyes flick up to meet his again.

_Yes. Castiel!_

And suddenly, that hand is inside, and it’s like the sun searing his soul, scorching him from the inside out, and it doesn’t matter how many times he’s felt it; it still hurts like the worst kind of agony — only the Cage could ever compare. If there’s a limit to pain, he hasn’t found it, and every passing moment is worse than the last, and then—

A flare.

Then nothing.

~*~

“Sammy?” A hand is tapping insistently on his cheek. “Sammy!!”

“Dean?” he wheezes, blinking up at his brother in the darkness. His throat is painfully hoarse. He hadn’t even known he was screaming.

“Oh God, you’re okay, you’re okay.” He’s being pulled upright, gathered into Dean’s arms. “Don’t fucking scare me like that, Sammy.”

He tries to talk, but it comes out a cough, and he tastes blood. The only illumination is moonlight streaming in through the broken windows, and there’s so much glass everywhere, it’s probably in the air. Another cough, and he’s likely staining Dean’s favourite jacket now.

Wait.

 _Cas!_ he remembers as it all comes rushing back, and he turns, searching frantically for the angel. The other is lying right beside them, or at least his vessel is, dried blood caked to his face, right ear and neck like he’d suffered a severe hemorrhage in his right frontal lobe and bled it out through his eye, ear and nose. Castiel or Jimmy — there’s no way to tell, and he doesn’t know how to check.

Another attempt to speak only results in more sanguine coughing, so Sam just tightens his grip on Dean’s arm with one hand and reaches for Castiel with the other. They’ve never needed a lot of words though, and his brother seems to understand him just fine.

“I don’t know, Sammy. His body’s still breathing. That’s something, right?”

Right. But it doesn’t precisely mean anything.

“Dude, we’ve gotta get out of here. The cops are probably on their way. Can you walk?”

He nods, letting Dean help him up. It’s not hard to find his footing, once he shakes his head to clear it, and he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Between them, they lift their unconscious friend and slowly make their way to the door. Dean peeks out. There’s not a soul in sight; all the lights are out in the corridor too. At the far end, he can just make out what remains of a fire escape sign over a door, and he indicates it with his head. Sam nods. They move as quickly and quietly as possible towards it. Getting down the stairs with the dead weight between them is challenging, but they manage with some skillful manoeuvring, and the back alley is dark and empty when they step out into the night.

In the distance, the sounds of sirens wailing are scattered, and when they peer around the corner, there are no law enforcement or emergency response agents around yet. People are running about in a panic, screaming and crying. There are clusters gathered here and there; they seem to be crowding around something. Sam doesn’t have to guess at what it is. Every human who’d gotten a love spell from the witch probably dropped dead the instant Castiel smote her.

It’s too late to worry about that now though, so they focus on getting back to the motel undetected. It isn’t hard, and they’re back in their room when the sound of sirens begins closing in. As soon as they’ve dropped their friend onto the bed, Sam grabs a bottle of water and heads to the bathroom to rinse his mouth at the sink before draining the bottle in one go.

“Hey.” He turns to find Dean leaning against the door frame.

“Hey.” Still hoarse, but no coughing. Okay.

“You sure you’re okay, Sammy?”

He nods, but he can tell his brother isn’t buying it. “I’m fine,” he insists. “Well, okay, not peachy, but good to go, all right?” he amends when Dean looks ready to argue. “Look, Dean, we don’t have time for this right now, okay? We need to move. Whoever is behind Cas’s mind control mojo is probably going to come looking, and the only place I can think of that might be safe for us is the batcave.”

Dean seems to wrestle with the idea of dropping it before reluctantly nodding. “I’ll check out. You pack up,” he decides in that tone that says in no uncertain terms that this isn’t over and waits for Sam to nod affirmative before heading for the door.

As soon as the front door clicks shut, the younger hunter sags against the nearest wall and takes a deep calming breath, squeezing his eyes shut in a moment’s respite from the events of the night. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, the exhaustion is back, and so much for stopping to get some proper sleep. Inhale, exhale, centre — he’s ready for this.

Pushing off from the wall, he grabs a small towel and wets it through before walking back out to the bed. Sitting beside Castiel —he doesn’t want to think that it’s just Jimmy now, or worse, no one—, he quickly works on cleaning off the dried blood that he can. He’s almost finished when Dean walks back in.

“Whoa, man. Something I should know about, baby bro?”

He turns, and the bitchface has his brother backing off instantly. “You want to explain why we have a comatose brain hemorrhage patient in the back seat instead of the hospital if someone stops us, Dean?”

The older hunter just raises his hands in surrender — _Nope, not touching this_ — and hurriedly sets to work packing their gear while Sam cleans off the rest of the blood.

They’re well on their way back to Kansas with a still unconscious Castiel in the back twenty minutes later when Dean switches the radio off halfway through _Ride The Lightning_. Okay. Serious conversation time. That’s the only time Dean ever turns off Metallica. Sam braces himself.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair tiredly. “Dean—”

“Don’t “Dean” me, Sammy. You could have died back there!”

“Yeah, okay; look, I wasn’t thinking, okay?”

“That’s your excuse?!”

“Fuck, man, what was I supposed to do?! What would you have done?!”

Dean opens his mouth, closes it again, and resolutely steps on the gas. Sam looks out the window into the night, resting his elbow on the window sill and his cheek on his knuckles, too on edge to sleep. The silence stretches between them, stilted and awful, and there’s no good way to break it.

Finally, Dean just flips the music back on, and Sam wishes he could punch the DJ who put on Led Zeppelin’s _Nobody’s Fault But Mine_ just for the fucking brilliant timing.

It’s a silent fifteen-hour drive.

~*~

Sam wakes to the smell of bacon, finally feeling something besides bone-deep exhaustion. He didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved that they’d managed to get Castiel into the batcave without a hitch the previous evening, but the comatose hopefully-still-an-angel is now locked in one of the rooms just in case. He rolls out of bed, freshens up in the nearest bathroom and heads out to the central area to join his brother for breakfast, stretching as he walks. On his plate, there is the breakfast equivalent of a bacon cheeseburger: a sandwich made of french toast, corned beef hash, bacon, tomato slices and cheddar. Dean may be nesting, but his dietary choices have clearly not grown any healthier. Sam heads to the fridge, grabs some juice and an apple to make himself feel better before starting on his breakfast. It’s delicious, of course. Dean does his unhealthy foods heart-arrestingly well.

“So,” he opens after he’s wolfed down about half the sandwich.

“So.”

Sam thinks about all the possible things he could say, but in the end settles for, “Have you checked?”

“Mr. Comatose is still out.”

He nods, taking another bite. “This is good.”

Dean grins. “Of course it is!”

Sam smiles back, muffling his sigh of relief with the rest of the sandwich. “Got any more?”

The older hunter tilts his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Knock yourself out, Sammy.”

“Maybe later.” Starting on his apple, he grabs the box of Lucky Charms on the counter. There’s enough left for maybe one bowl. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Dean turning to look as he pours the cereal. Tossing the box, he brings the bowl over to where his brother is reading the day’s newspaper at the table and offers it to him. Dean looks bemusedly at the cereal, but takes it anyway as Sam sits down beside him to peer at the newspaper. “Any more on that case in Pensacola?” he asks, reaching into the bowl for a few pieces of cereal.

“Not yet.” Dean grabs a handful out of the bowl and crams it into his mouth before turning the page.

Sam scans the new page quickly, resting his chin on his brother’s shoulder to read. “Hey, look at this one. Up in Maine.”

“Sounds like a regular haunting, routine salt-and-burn, should be over in a flash. I’ll call Garth and see if anyone in the area’s on it, maybe have him send someone to Pensacola too.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, I’m more worried about the Atlantean kidnappings.”

“Dude.” Dean turns to level him a Look. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Jefferson Starships,” he reminds pointedly, crossing his arms and returning it.

“That name,” Dean retorts, waving a finger in his face. “Is awesome.”

He laughs, rising to head back into the kitchen. “I don’t know, Dean. You just want it to be mermaids.” At Dean’s mock scowl, he simply gets to work frying up another batch of french toast and bacon. “Hey, check in on Kevin too, will ya?” he calls over his shoulder.

As Dean goes to call Garth, Sam puts the toast and bacon on a plate before piling on the rest of the corned beef hash and tomato slices and grabbing another pack of juice from the fridge.

Time to check on a certain angel.

He unlocks the door to the room and sets the food down on the table before approaching the bed. Cas makes a hastily aborted motion to get up and touch him as he sits down.

“Sam?”

“Yes.” Okay, definitely still Cas. He reaches over to help the other sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“Where is this place?” Blue eyes scan the room slowly. “I feel... suppressed.”

Oh. “Uh... Yeah, there might be some kind of angel warding around here. I don’t know. It’s nothing I can see. Do you see anything?”

Castiel shakes his head and grimaces, stilling, and Sam has to catch him to keep him from falling over. In the end, he settles Cas against his side with an arm around him to keep him upright.

“Do you remember what happened?” he tries instead.

There is a long pause before the angel answers, “Yes. The witch. She was powerful. She fought Naomi.”

“Naomi?”

“Naomi. The one controlling us. The one that made me kill..." Cas groans as if speaking hurt.

“Cas?” Sam tilts Castiel’s head to face him so he can check his eyes. _Nope, still here._

“I can’t hear her anymore.” Cas pushes his hand away weakly. “I can’t hear anything. Where is this?”

Sam looks around, thinks of the room a few doors down, and contemplates saying it’s home. But that doesn’t answer the question. Still, they have no way of knowing whether it’s safe to tell Cas anything yet, so perhaps it is best to be vague. “It’s a bunker of sorts,” is what he settles for. “Like a giant panic room with a library. We found the key, Dean liked his room, we stayed.” He drops his hands to his thighs with finality, adding, “It’s home now.” Shifting to keep the other upright, Sam grabs the pack of juice from the table and presses it into Castiel’s hands. “It’ll make your throat feel better,” he insists, preempting the ‘angels don’t need to drink’ speech. Smiling, he brings the sandwich on the table over. “And if you’re feeling up to it, Dean’s _nesting._ Yeah. So he made that, and you should try it. Because it’s good. Like a bacon cheeseburger. Only with breakfast foods.”

The words ‘bacon cheeseburger’ bring the ghost of a smile to Castiel’s face, and he accepts the plate without protest. “How long have you known?” he asks after finishing the juice, speaking more easily now.

“Known?” Sam considers his answer carefully. “Not very long. Is it... over? Can you tell?”

“I... don’t know. At the end..." The angel trails off, pensive. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he decides at length. “It was dangerous. You could’ve died. I was not myself. Naomi made me kill Samandriel.” His expression grows pained. “He tried to tell me something about Them. I wanted to warn you about her. About me. About..." At that, Cas suddenly stands, alarmed. “An angel tablet. There’s an angel tablet.” He blinks. “We need to find it. Samandriel told Crowley.” Just as abruptly, he sits down, sighing with relief. “Yes, I think it’s... over, as you say. Naomi wouldn’t have let me tell you all that.”

“An angel tablet,” Sam echoes, beginning to pace. “So. If the demon tablet closes the gates of Hell..."

“Yes. I think it stands to reason that the angel tablet could, as you’d put it, send us all packing.”

“And we can safely assume Crowley is looking for it then.”

“Looking for what?” Dean interjects, coming to stand at the door.

“The angel tablet,” they answer in unison.

He slams his hand against the door jamb. “Of course there’s an angel tablet!” Dean may as well have said “Damn it!” for all the vehemence in that.

Sam perpends the situation for a moment. “Okay, so there’s an angel tablet, and we don’t know where it is. We do know that Crowley is looking for it. What are the chances of anyone else finding it?”

His brother shifts to lean against the wall just inside the door. “Seeing as no one’s discovered it already?”

“Right. So if we just... I don’t know, send Crowley and his goons packing before they find it?”

“You are suggesting we focus on closing the gates of Hell,” Cas surmises thoughtfully.

“Yes.” Sam stops. “Rather than chase the unknown, we focus on what we know. Did Kevin say anything about the next trial?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not yet. He’s still working on it.”

“Cas, do you know how Naomi does it? Control you, I mean.”

The angel considers the question carefully. “I believe that she... did something to me. Much like what Crowley did to Samandriel.”

Sam and Dean wince.

“Okay. Crowley, I get.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, pacing angrily. “But this... Those dicks do that to their own kind now?”

Sam sits down beside Cas to fist his hands in the sheets. He’s angry, of course, but giving in to the rage would only make them all angrier unproductively, and demeaning Castiel’s remaining siblings, no matter how deservingly, won’t make the seraph feel any better. “So it’s permanent?” he asks, voice tight, choosing instead to focus on problem-solving.

“It should be. However, it was the right choice to let the witch fight Naomi uninterrupted. And at the end, with Naomi’s hold weakened..." Here, the angel turns to Sam, an intense look in brilliant blue eyes, and reaches out to cover Sam’s larger hand with his own. “It was a risk to your life you shouldn’t have taken, Sam. But as a result, I successfully fought her and destroyed her tampering. Healing should’ve restored me to my... natural state. I owe you many thanks.”

Sam ducks his head, letting his hair obscure his face. “I—It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for either one of us, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, but his fingers tighten around Sam’s hand minutely, and it’s... pleasant, Sam thinks. Warm.

“Aww... Samantha’s blushing,” Dean teases with a laugh, breaking the silence before it can get awkward.

He glares at his brother, then stands abruptly. “You said ‘should.’ Does that mean you can’t be certain?”

“Wait.” Dean holds up a hand, giving Castiel an incredulous look. “You mean someone could be dicking around in your head right now, and you wouldn’t know?”

The seraph smiles thinly. “Is there any way to be completely certain with such things?”

“He’s fine, Dean,” Sam interrupts before the conversation can escalate. “For now at least. Trust me, okay? I’ve figured out how to tell.” Turning to Cas, he insists, “We’ll find one. Just tell us everything you know that may be of help.”

If anything, the angel’s smile warms at the sentiment as their eyes meet. “I believe she... summons me using the subtonic frequencies you refer to as angel radio. I can consciously block them out, as I usually do, but on some level, they remain audible. In here, it is... you would call it a dead zone. As such, there is no way of knowing for certain until I step out to where I can hear those frequencies.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not taking that risk,” Dean beats him to the punch.

Sam nods, beginning to pace again. “There must be some way to... protect a person’s mind from intrusion. I’ll start looking.” He immediately walks out to the central library to find it, leaving Cas with Dean in the room to an awkward silence.

As Dean casts around for something to break it, his gaze falls on the forgotten sandwich on the bed. “Hey, you gonna eat that?”

Cas looks at the plate and picks it up. “Yes,” he decides, taking a bite. He blinks. “It’s very good.”

“Yeah?” Dean grins, looking pleased with himself. “I made it.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just continues eating in silence, and the hunter scratches the back of his neck.

“Uh, hey, Cas?”

Blue eyes flick up to look at him. Dean fidgets, his expression conflicted.

"You know what? Never mind,” he decides at last. “You... just stay here, yeah?"

The angel’s gaze drops to the sandwich as he nods. “I have no intention of leaving. It’d be best if I remained where I can’t be compromised.”

Dean’s lips thin as his eyes cut to a corner of the room. “Yeah. That’s... You’re right. Eat your food, Cas.”

“I will.”

He takes another bite as Dean shuts the door behind him but doesn’t lock it and smiles faintly at the sandwich in his hand. Dean may have made the batter and the corned beef hash, but Sam’s the one who put this together. The bacon is somewhat crispier than Dean would have made it, and only Sam would have put in two layers of tomato slices. It even tastes faintly of the younger Winchester’s concern. Angels certainly don’t have to eat, but if sentiment has any value, Castiel fully intends to finish the sandwich.

~*~

The table is covered in books, scrolls and codices from every lore tradition in the world in more languages, dead and alive, than Sam can read. He’s prioritizing the stuff he _can_ read, taking notes in a letter-sized writing pad on every possibly relevant thing he can find. So far, he has some mental techniques that might help, a variety of implements that might augment those, and an interesting piece on how sharing mental defenses between people is more effective than anything that can be accomplished alone, but nothing nearly as foolproof as he’d like.

“Sam.”

He jumps. Powers or no, Cas still moves like he’d waited in the room unperceived until he wanted you to notice his presence.

“Cas!” He turns, smiling. “Perfect timing! Th—” He stops. “How are you feeling?”

Castiel tilts his head, his brows furrowed in confusion. “I am... all right, I suppose. May I?”

Sam blinks. Castiel has halted right at the archway into the central area. “Uh... yeah, some of these texts might contain helpful information, but I don’t have a good enough grasp of Enochian or Sumerian to translate them properly.”

“Dean told me to stay where I was.” The Angel walks over to the table and picks up one of the scrolls he’s indicating.

It is Sam’s turn to be confused now. “Why w—oh. Uh... Dean just went out to grab some supplies.” He tears two sheets out of his writing pad and hands Castiel a pen. “Why don’t you translate anything that seems relevant, so we can put everything we find together after?”

Castiel takes the pen, sits down and begins to write.

~*~

Polishing off the rest of his coffee, Sam stifles a yawn. Some time back, Dean had told him to “wake me up when you find something” and gone to bed, but they haven’t had much luck, and Dean would probably wake up of his own accord long before they find what they are searching for. Even with Castiel’s help, there is a lot of material to cover, and they still have yet to uncover anything more than helpful theories and tools. Definitely nothing that could apply to angels. Granted, protecting an angel from celestial brainwashing was probably nothing the ancients ever had to worry about. Between them, they have nearly used up the entire writing pad, but there are still a number of tomes and parchments they have yet to check, and he refuses to give up until they’ve exhausted every resource.

Shaking himself awake, he stands to get another cup of coffee from the kitchen. He walks into Cas and nearly drops his —fortunately empty— cup, reflexively taking a half step back.

“You need to rest, Sam,” the angel preempts his yelp of surprise and swearing, intoning the words like conviction alone would impress the gravity of them upon the hunter.

“God, I—Yeah. I will. Soon. After I finish the scroll I’m working on.”

It is a little unnerving the way Castiel stares at you, unblinking, like he can pierce your soul with his gaze and know every dark secret you’ve ever tried to bury. Sam swallows thickly, looking away. He feels pinned to the spot, exposed. It’s not... unpleasant, per se, but it’s not comfortable.

“No. Humans need sleep,” the other insists, prying the coffee cup out of his hands.

Before he can riposte, he’s falling through white light into his bed. He gasps, the air knocked from his lungs during the shift. “Cas!” he protests, sitting up and ignoring the now constant dull ache throughout.

“Sleep, Sam,” Castiel repeats from where he’s standing at Sam’s bedside. “You know angels don’t need to. I will keep working on those texts.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

Cas sits down abruptly. “Your health... Sam, you’re damaged in ways even I can’t heal,” he admits quietly, a deep sorrow in his voice. “Whatever you’ve done, it’s changing you at the subatomic level. Your body’s electromagnetic fields... They’re abnormal. I tried. The mending unravels almost as soon as I finish and twice as quickly.” He presses Sam’s forehead to the pillow, healing the human anyway. “Please refrain from accelerating the process.”

Sam catches the angel’s wrist as he pulls away, meeting blue eyes with a pleading look. “Please. Don’t tell Dean,” he whispers.

Castiel’s gaze falls to Sam’s hands. “I... understand.” He takes them in his own and folds them over the younger Winchester’s abdomen. “Now, sleep, Sam. I will... watch you to make sure you do.”

At that, the hunter chuckles wryly. “That’s... not romantic, Cas. No matter what modern fiction tells you.”

When the seraph tilts his head and furrows his brows, Sam shakes his head.

“Never mind. I meant that it would make it more difficult for me to sleep if you were to watch me like this.”

The other looks away, withdrawing his hands to his lap, as if finding particular interest in the lamp on the nightstand.

_Perhaps this is his compromise of supervising without actually watching._

Sam shifts to lie on his side, amused, and starts to tell the angel that he’s missing the point when he catches a proper glimpse of Castiel’s face. He has seen this almost-expression before — in a certain diner, back before Purgatory screwed everything past Hell.

“Cas?” He pushes himself up on his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

The other seems reluctant to answer, hesitates even to face him. “I don’t understand. You used to sleep just fine,” Cas says finally, deep voice soft and gaze intense, and it is far too easy to tell that he’d considered fibbing, however briefly.

The “with me watching” goes unsaid, but Sam blinks and tilts his head back slightly to Look at the seraph. It is actually... a rather perturbing confession. He thinks to ask how long Cas has been watching him sleep without his knowledge, but ends up flopping back on the bed, thinking better of it.

“Uh. It’s... different when I can’t feel you staring, you know? Or if I didn’t know you were there. Because um. When someone stares at you, you get this... prickly feeling at the back of your neck. Like. Just. A sense that someone is watching. And it’s kinda uncomfortable? Do ang—” His explanation has devolved into rambling, so he stops, running a hand through his hair. “No, forget all that. It would feel a lot less strange if you were to lie down as well instead of sitting beside me,” he suggests instead.

He’s only a little surprised when the angel does just that. Not that it’s unlike Cas to take a suggestion literally, but this is the kind of thing Cas usually does with Dean — you know, talk, bond, grab beers, chill in the Impala. For Sam, it’s just a bit new. He shifts back onto his side to face Cas, olive eyes meeting blue. Like this, lying side by side on the bed with their faces mere inches apart, it’s almost too intimate.

“You’re not sleeping,” Cas observes after several moments.

“No,” Sam agrees. “Because I’d miss you,” he teases, chuckling.

He is definitely surprised when those eyes warm and soften. “Thank you, Sam,” Cas murmurs, quiet and sincere. “I have... hurt you far more than you deserve. And yet, you are always so kind.”

Sam huffs at that, ducking his head. “Come on, Cas. Don’t say that. You’ve saved me, saved us, many times before. I—We wouldn’t give up on you, you know?” He flicks his eyes up to meet the other’s.

“ _You_ never have,” the angel agrees, reaching out to hold him by the jaw so he can’t look away. “I... admire your tenacity, your faith, Sam. And... despite the results, your selfless intentions.”

“Cas..." he begins, reaching up to remove the hand cupping his cheek.

“Do you know what your name means?” Castiel asks out of the blue, ignoring his interjection.

“Uh, yeah. Short for Samuel. God has heard. Why?”

“It is fitting.” Almost inaudibly, the angel lets out a wry chuckle. “I heard _every_ prayer, Sam. Even in Purgatory, it was distant, sometimes mere snatches, but I always heard you. It kept me going.”

The “even when I was going away from you” hovers silently between them, but Sam, better than anyone, knows how heavily it hangs in the air, on the soul.

“We’ve all done things we regret, Cas. You’ve more than redeemed yourself already.”

“Have I?” Castiel’s smile is cold, thin, condescending. “Speak not on what you don’t understand.”

Sam thinks to apologize for presuming, but decides the better of it. Nothing he can do or say would be more than a small, cold comfort anyway, so he settles for covering the hand on his cheek with his own and squeezing it.

Again to his surprise, Castiel’s smile turns almost fond at that, and beneath the press of that old, old gaze, Sam feels like a child.

“Does it make you feel better to hear someone say that? Even if it’s true?”

“No,” Sam admits. “But. I just... For what it’s worth, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts, soft but firm. “Thank you.”

For the longest time, they remain like that, in silence, and then, all of a sudden, it just gets too weird, too surreal. Sam rolls onto his back, letting out an awkward laugh as he stares up at the ceiling.

“God.” He can’t stop laughing suddenly. “That was... kinda like pillow talk.”

He can imagine, without having to look, Castiel’s bemused expression, and it only sets him off more.

“You are... referring to post-coital intimate conversation..?”

The clinical definition and flat tone only make it funnier and even more surreal.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he answers between chuckles, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Minus the coitus, of course. Oh God, this is awkward.”

“Like the hug?” Cas deadpans.

“What?” Startled, he turns to face the angel again. The situation doesn’t seem so funny anymore.

“When you first got your soul back,” the other clarifies.

“Um. Yeah. I—Yeah,” is about all he can manage, looking away again. Yeah. Awkward because there was something they wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ acknowledge. Because Cas was, well, Cas. And Sam was…well. Bec—

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Castiel’s quiet response grinds his thoughts to a screeching halt. By the time he turns to look again, the seraph is already at the door.

“Sleep, Sam,” he insists again, nodding at the lamp to switch it off, casting the room in darkness. “When you awake, I will have more of those texts translated for analysis.”

Sam can only nod in reply, too unhinged by the exchange. Cas waits for him to close his eyes obediently before exiting, and when the door clicks shut, he finds sleep coming more easily than he’d expected. For the first time in a long while, there is no pain, and he really is exhausted.

~*~

True to his word, when Sam wakes up, Castiel has not only finished translating the Enochian scroll he was working on before he was sent to bed, but also relevant excerpts from over half the books they’d set aside. Dean made pancakes for breakfast, and there’s more butter, syrup and bacon than pancakes, but they’re good anyway, and he still has his fruit stash in the fridge to make him feel healthier. He sits across from the angel and engages in typical morning banter with Dean over breakfast and coffee, keeping a safe distance and trying not to think about their conversation in his bedroom the night before.

“So. You two found anything yet?” Dean asks, his eyes cutting to where Castiel is bent over a book of close up photographs and written copies of Mesopotamian clay tablets.

Sam shoots him a questioning look. He didn’t miss the way green eyes narrowed for the briefest moment before sliding away. “I didn’t find anything concrete yesterday. Cas?”

“There are some rituals containing similar elements in some of the Sumerian, Egyptian, Mayan and Aztecan texts, more helpful concepts and theories from various sources, but not exactly what we’re looking for,” the seraph replies without looking up from where he is filling another sheet of paper with his fine, perfectly uniform script. Castiel writes like he learned the Latin alphabet by studying the Vetus Latina, which he probably had, and never quite modernized beyond using a ballpoint and paper instead of a quill and vellum. Sam thinks it’s beautiful — effortless calligraphy. Cas tears the sheet off the pad when he’s done, looking up at them. “I don’t think we’ll find exactly what we’re looking for.”

“No shit. It’s like expecting to find a spell to protect God.”

Sam winces at Dean’s word choice. He knows his brother doesn’t mean anything by it, but the jibe is loud and clear even if the angel merely begins looking for the next relevant page.

He clears his throat. “Well, we can probably invent our own based on some similar ones. All of these spells were invented by someone at some point.”

“If we’re workin’ on noodles, Sammy, I’d like a tried and tested recipe.”

Castiel looks up at that, confused, and Sam can practically see him work out that they’re not talking about a pasta dinner. He has to smother an amused chuckle. Blue eyes flick to him, and the ghost of a tentative smile curves the other’s lips before Cas resumes reading. Something’s different, and he’s not sure what, but as long as it’s not Naomi, pleasantly different is fine. In all honesty, he doesn’t think Cas has really been himself since before he’d jumped into the Cage with the devil. He turns back to his brother.

“But Dean, what if there is no tried and tested spell?”

“Then we find some other way.”

“There’s no time for that,” Cas interrupts firmly. “We need to stop Crowley.”

“Cas.” Dean turns to the angel, his tone impatient and final. “There is no way in hell we’re letting you back out there to be some dickhead’s bitch again.”

“Dean, th—”

“Then I’ll stay here.” Cas puts the book down, meeting Dean’s gaze levelly. “It’s better than being... out there, adding to my sins.”

 _Wait, what? No. NO._ The mere idea of Castiel staying inside this bunker, as nice of a home as it is, permanently is simply too sad. Sam buries his face in his hands. No, he won’t let that happen. They’ll find something; he knows it. He takes a deep breath to get a grip before speaking.

“Guys, look. Look.” He lets his hands drop to the table. “We’ll keep trying for the rest of the day, and if we don’t find anything by the end of it, we’ll figure out what’s going on either with Crowley or with Kevin. And then, when we’ve done something about at least one of the tablet problems we have, we’ll look around for some other way to fix this mind control crap, okay?” He looks from one to the other expectantly.

Dean throws his hands up in the air in exasperated surrender, conceding to his logic. “Fine.”

Cas turns back to the book. “Of course.”

“I’m gonna go check up on my baby,” Dean announces, standing and grabbing his jacket as he heads out. “We might have some long drives ahead.”

Sam nods, picking up a sheet of the new translations to read. He makes it through three pages containing little new information before that familiar itch in the back of his throat starts up, and he coughs, covering his mouth with his right hand. It comes away bloody, and he realizes that Cas is staring at him. He simply stands and goes to the sink to rinse the blood out of his mouth and off his hand. When he turns around, the angel is there, head tilted back to look up at him with concern, and it doesn’t even startle him.

“How are you feeling?” they ask at once.

Castiel answers first. “I still can’t hear ‘angel radio,’ if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sam shakes his head. “I was asking about you. And I’m fine.” He chuckles wryly. “Well, as fine as I can be,” he amends. “There’s a deep-seated ache everywhere, but it’s minor. I got used to it.”

Cas reaches for his forehead, but he catches the angel’s wrist.

“You already said it doesn’t work, Cas.”

“I have no intention of letting you suffer if I can take the pain away even briefly.”

The tips of two fingers press lightly between his eyebrows, and the ache does recede, just like it did the night before, and when he opens his eyes, he’s struck by how close they suddenly are, that they’re practically breathing the same air, and Cas smells like... sandalwood. And frankincense and ozone. And a barely there hint of spring grass and flowers. Like life and churches and lightning. The last time they had been in such close proximity was back during the Apocalypse when Cas had drunk a liquor store, and he’d smelled of about twenty different kinds of alcohol at the time.

It’s not a good memory.

The other’s fingers brush his face as they fall away, and Sam takes a step back. What does it say about him that the angel has to be wasted to want to stand so near? Castiel can likely sense the taint in his veins from across the room.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling gratefully. “Now we should probably make the most of this day.” He sits down to continue looking over the stack of translations.

“Of course,” Castiel agrees, also retaking his seat and resuming his work.

~*~

The Impala is in perfect condition and sparkling clean; Dean bought two kinds of pie from town for lunch, marathoned half a season of Dr. Sexy MD after calling Garth and Kevin again to find that nothing has changed, sorted another section of artifacts and made burgers for dinner before heading off to shower and sleep; and Sam has a stack of comparative analysis notes to show for the day’s work. Cas is still working on translations because he does them a lot faster, and if nothing else, they have found a selective auditory blocking spell. The question, of course, is how to target the frequencies they want to block and if it would work even on a subconscious level, since it is easy to mess with conscious perception, but the subconscious is always a tricky thing.

“Sam.”

He looks up at the sound of his name to find the seraph standing beside a shelf and intently reading a book. He squints at the cover; he can just see it with the way Cas is holding it, and it appears to be a collection of ancient treatises on the power of the mind compiled by one of the early Elders.

Rising, he walks over to stand behind Cas, so he can read over his shoulder. “What have you found?”

Truth be told, he can’t read anything on the page —he only knows enough to identify it as Brahmi script, meaning the text is likely in Vedic Sanskrit—, but Cas seems to want him to see, and indeed, the angel just shifts his hold on the text to point at a section of the page.

“It is possible,” he translates, sliding his fingertip along the page to indicate where he is reading, “to create a space in which the constructs of the mind can be made physically manifest. This space, hereinafter referred to as the Transmuter, can be used to tap into the minds of multiple individuals to create a shared reality. Work in the Transmuter must be done with intense focus and utmost caution, as anything with sufficient mental presence —for instance, any belief, fear or desire at the forefront of thought— becomes real in every sense. The reverse is also true: Interactions between individuals and their mental constructs will have psychological impact. Depending on the individual and the nature of the interaction, this impact could be dangerously far-reaching and profound. It is thus vital to take precautions and to prepare every individual mentally for sessions in the Transmuter.” He stops, turning to look at Sam. “The pages that follow contain the method for setting the Transmuter up, as well as preparatory and precautionary steps. I believe we may be able to use it to physically manifest any non-physical control mechanism of Naomi’s that remains. If we destroy or block it in the Transmuter, the psychic effect should extend beyond.”

Sam straightens, considering. “I don’t know, Cas. It’s risky,” he decides at length. “But it _is_ the most concrete technique we’ve found.”

“I am aware of the risks. They’re mine to take.”

“No. God, no, Cas,” he’s saying before he even realizes he’s started talking, and it comes off a lot more presumptuous than he intended. “I mean. We should prepare a ton of safety measures and a plan B. We’re messing with _your mind_ here. Let’s not take any risks that aren’t strictly necessary, okay?” he amends, this time sounding more like an anxious parent than anything else. “Cas?”

The other has shuffled back to lean against him, head resting on his chest.

“Um. Cas? What a—”

“It’s so quiet in here,” Castiel answers, and his tone makes it sound like a good thing, but the remark is punctuated with a wistful sigh.

 _Oh._ Of course it’s good that he can’t hear Naomi, but then the silence must seem deafening to one so accustomed to hearing the cacophony outside, to all the sounds both within and beyond the range audible to humans. And if angel radio used to see more activity before the civil war massacre, then— _Oh God,_ Sam thinks as it suddenly dawns on him with horror. _No wonder he seemed so pained when he said he couldn’t hear anything yesterday._

For a moment, it probably seemed like all the angels were dead.

“Oh God, Cas, _I am so sorry,_ ” he blurts out. His hands are flailing stupidly by his side in his agitation, so he shoves them in his pockets to stop. “I won’t let you stay in here forever, I promise. L—Let’s work this thing out. I think there are a few things we can use in my notes over there, and—I—I just. I’m sorry. I should have r—”

“ _Sam,_ ” Cas firmly interrupts his increasingly frantic babbling. “You have no cause to be apologizing to me. Stop.”

He does. Cas sighs again, and it seems resigned this time.

“Winchesters,” he complains simply.

“Um.” Sam fidgets a little, not knowing how to react.

“Is it still awkward?”

The question blindsides him from out of left field, and it takes a full minute for him to work out that the angel is referring to their conversation from the night before and that declined hug he’s still oddly hung up on. And, just like the previous night, Sam doesn’t know how to handle this sudden strange intimacy.

Before he can reply, Castiel continues with “I don’t understand,” confusion evident in his voice that has dropped to a near-whisper. “Why is it somehow less awkward when I... am not in my right mind?”

Sam stiffens. “I—How? You remember that?” His voice is so strangled, it sounds like a squeak.

The other had been completely unresponsive that night in the psychiatric ward as they processed Sam’s release and Castiel’s admission, and with Dean doing paperwork and Meg applying for the nurse job, it had fallen to the newly recovered Sam to keep an eye on their very broken angel. He’d settled for laying Castiel out on the narrow cot beside him, spooning to fit into the small space, and whispering his thanks and apologies into soft, dark hair. He’d hoped Cas would hear. He hadn’t realized Cas had been aware.

“I remember everything, Sam,” Cas breathes, and just like that, Sam is acting without thinking, wrapping his arms tightly around the smaller body and burying his face in the joint between neck and shoulder. The trench coat feels familiar on his skin, and this time, it doesn’t smell of mildew and medicine.

Castiel goes surprisingly pliant against him, sighing like... like this is something longed for.

Sam shudders. “Cas, what is this?”

The angel merely puts the tome he’s holding down to cover the arms around his waist with his own. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he answers, the slight grin audible in his voice.

It brings a smile to Sam’s face, a lightness to his heart, and he lifts his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs sheepishly. “I guess... I guess I didn’t think you’d ever actually want to.”

The other turns to look quizzically at him; then it dawns on Castiel what he means, and his friend’s expression grows stricken. “Sam, I have said terrible things to you.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head quickly. “You were right. I—”

“No,” Cas cuts him off, taking his hands. “I was... ignorant. And callous later. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Please. Put it from your mind. Forgive me.”

Sam ducks his head and laughs shakily. “Okay.”

The angel lights up at that, looking as pleased as he did back in that moment at the gas station when he was telling them he’d decided to become a hunter with them, and it’s a simply delightful thing.

“But now tell me what you’ve found in your analysis. We’re running out of time.”

Sam nods and reaches for his stack of notes, smiling.

~*~

“No. _Hell no._ ”

Sam runs a hand tiredly through his hair. “Dean—” He just woke up; he’s had three cups of coffee; he shouldn’t already be tired.

“Sammy, if you think I’m going to let you go play around with your heads in crazy space, y—”

“It’s the best bet we’ve got, Dean,” he cuts in as forcefully as he can without raising his voice.

“No, Sam. Just no. We’re not talking about this,” his brother insists, getting out of his chair to run a hand through his hair.

Sam buries his face in his hands.

“There _has_ to be some other way.”

He huffs, straightening and pursing his lips, patience wearing thin, but before he can speak, Castiel interjects with “Your brother is right, Dean. This is the most reliable method we have found.”

The angel looks, for the lack of a better word, morose, not to mention just as weary, despite his continued insistence that the heavenly host never sleeps.

“Fine.” The older hunter looks desperately from one to the other. “Then I’ll do it.”

“Absolutely not.” Realizing they’d spoken in unison, they exchange glances.

“Dean, we’ve just been over why it can’t be you. Naomi would assume it’s you as soon as she discovers the block, and the last thing we need is to prove her right.”

“Moreover, the... nature of the technique is such that Sam would be better suited,” Cas adds.

“What?” Dean snaps, voice tight. “Why? I told you to take care of my little brother, Cas, not come up with some h—”

“What?” Sam interrupts, finally giving in to the need to be louder than his brother. “When was this?” He turns an accusing glare on the other two.

The angel doesn’t meet his eyes. “I heard you, Dean. And I intend to. But that doesn’t change the facts.”

Sam turns on his brother instead. “Dean?”

The blond slumps. “Look, I know you’re hurtin’, all right? You can’t keep hiding it from me, Sammy. Hell, I wish you didn’t think you had to. And that’s on me. This whole trials thing? It should’ve been me. Now, if you think I’m gonna let you take on another one of these crosses you can barely carry, you’ve got another thing comin’. Sam, no. Just no. We’re going to find a way to do this with me, or we’re not doing this thing at all, you got that?”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Cas beats him to the punch.

“What part of ‘it doesn’t work that way’ escapes your understanding?”

And Sam’s heard this pleading tone before. The one that’s all “Please understand. I don’t have a choice. I don’t want this any more than you do.” This conversation is going all wrong.

“Look. Dean. Cas,” he interrupts firmly before Dean can respond and the argument can escalate. “I have worked out every precaution and failsafe that we might need. We have plan Bs of plan Bs, all right? Sure, it’s never going to be perfectly safe, but we go on hunts less prepared than this. I want to do this, Dean. And I can. And it has to be. We’ve talked about this.”

He catches the way green eyes dart to where Cas is practically hunched in his chair, gaze trained on some section of the polished wooden floor.

“I trust him,” he adds pointedly.

The tense silence hangs in the air as they stare each other down. Finally, Dean runs a hand over his face in defeat.

“So.” He clears the lump in his throat and tries again. “So you’re _sure_ this is going to work? Like. One hundred percent sure?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers bitterly, still staring at the floor like the grains in the wood held the mysteries of the universe. “Sam is my friend too. I would never put him at risk any more than is strictly necessary.”

Sam inclines his head towards the angel in agreement.

Another moment of strained silence passes as Dean looks from Sam to Cas and back.

“Okay,” he says at last. “Okay.” He sits down. “Tell me the plan.”

~*~

They are in a large hall presumably used for rituals such as this. Castiel is making the protection potion they found, crushing crystals into powder to add to the chalice to indicate the nature of protection desired. Dean is helping Sam paint the sigils that make up the Transmuter. The circle spans most of the empty room, which should be enough space for anything they need to do. The mixture in the chalice bubbles up smoke in various colours as Cas whispers the activation spell in Sumerian over it, and then it is done; the angel bottles the completed potion carefully. When they have finished the Transmuter and Cas has pronounced the work correct, Dean nods stiffly at them both, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide the nervous tension but shifting restlessly on his feet regardless.

“Seven hours? You’re sure?”

Cas turns to him. “Yes, that should suffice. And no matter what happens before that time is up, do _not_ enter. Don’t attempt to disrupt whatever is taking place inside the Transmuter. Adding another mind to the mix will only make things worse. After seven hours, come in and break the circle. Use a knife to scrape off the paint or a mop to wipe parts off. _Don’t touch anything_.”

“Right,” Dean agrees, but instead of leaving, he lingers, hesitant and unconvinced.

Sam steps closer to grab him by the shoulders. “Dean. We’ll be fine. It’s okay.”

They’re not sure which of them steps in for the hug, but suddenly, they have an arm around each other.

“Hey. Don’t you go doing anythin’ stupid inside the Matrix, you hear me?”

Sam grins as he pulls away. “Don’t worry, Dean. I promise I’ll take the red pill every time.”

Dean nods, squeezing his bicep once firmly, then exits, leaving Sam and Cas alone in the hall. The angel comes to stand beside him.

“I don’t see any pills. Does he think there will be pills we should be wary of inside?”

Sam turns to wrap an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and smile at his concerned expression. “Red pill, blue pill, we’ll watch that movie together after this, okay?”

Cas relaxes and mirrors the smile at that. “I would like that. I find your movies fascinating.” His coat, jacket, tie and shirt vanish with a thought and reappear as a folded pile in the corner. “Here,” he says, pressing a sheet of paper and a small vial into his hand. The paper is covered in Enochian sigils, and the vial is unmistakably filled with blood. “You need to draw those on me.”

He must have blinked rather stupidly at his friend because the other follows up by explaining, “I can’t do it myself because it negates my Grace.”

Oh. Right. Of course. They need to do that for any magic to work. He nods. “Let’s sit down then.”

Cas sits down in the lotus position, and Sam joins him on the floor. The skin on Jimmy’s back is milky white and unmarred but for a single brand between his shoulderblades; it seems to be an old scar. He eyes it quizzically, oddly certain that it’s an Enochian binding seal. Suppressing his curiosity, he silently uncorks the vial, staining a single fingertip to begin writing. Castiel’s blood smells of iron, ozone and a bittersweetness Sam can’t define. For a fleeting moment, just like when they were making the weapon to kill Dick Roman, he’s tempted to taste it. Hurriedly, he quashes that thought. He doesn’t do that anymore.

“Sam,” the angel speaks up suddenly. “What’s bothering you?”

He jerks, startled. “How... Are you reading my mind?”

“No.” Castiel’s shoulders seem to sag just a fraction. “I merely get a... general impression of your intent whenever you touch me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that badly.” Instead of mentioning the passing urge, he traces the brand he found with a clean fingertip. “What’s this?”

Castiel stiffens. “Whatever modifications Naomi made are tied to this vessel, so she must have put that on to keep me in it. No matter, it is not of import. I never had any plans to leave.”

Speaking of this vessel, “Cas, is Jimmy still..?”

“No. Not since Lucifer. We will only be working with two minds in there.”

At the mention of Lucifer, Sam remembers the last days of the Apocalypse-that-would-have-been, how hard it had been on Castiel to be cut off from Heaven — the drinking, the depression, the despair. “You can’t go back after this, you know,” he says quietly, finishing up the last sigil. “If They catch you again..."

The other turns around to face him. “I am well aware. I don’t need to go back anymore.” His face falls a little. “It’s probably best if I don’t. The death toll... In the early days at the psychiatric ward, when I still saw echoes of your visions of Lucifer, the Morningstar did little more than talk to me. He said I wanted to be punished, and it wouldn’t be torment if he gave me the satisfaction.” Castiel’s lips curve into the hint of a sardonic smile. “Do you know? I can be killed like any mortal with these sigils on.”

Olive eyes widen, and the trepidation is clear in his voice when he asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

Cas shifts a little closer to answer quietly, “You said you trust me. It’s mutual.”

Sam smiles, eyes shining, and his touch, when he reaches out to take the angel’s face in his hands, conveys that he is at once moved and worried. “I don’t need proof, Cas. And you’re still an angel; you’ll always be. We could never be everything you need.”

Castiel finds that his eyes had dropped to Sam’s lips as the hunter was speaking and quickly looks back up, searching for the words to properly express himself. Human language, English in particular, was so limited. Licking his dry lips, he finally says, “You could be ninety-nine percent.”

Sam inhales sharply —surprise, desire, love— and closes the distance between them. Cas tilts his head to accommodate, shifting onto his knees to reach. The kiss is gentle; Sam’s lips are soft and languid over his own, and the human’s soul glows when he opens up to the light press of tongue. It will always, always be the most beautiful soul he’s ever seen, Cas thinks, and he’s seen a lot of souls in his millennia. Sam tastes like coffee and cinnamon sugar from the doughnuts this morning and something else undefinable that he can’t help but like. It’s a complex chain of reactions in human biochemistry, he knows, but that seems like an awfully dry way to think about a miracle of his Father’s creation.

Instead, he wonders aloud when they part that “That was... markedly different from the pizza man.”

Sam blinks for a moment, then bursts out laughing. “Oh man, I sure hope so; this isn’t a porno.”

He tilts his head, confused. Of course it isn’t. Perhaps the pills Dean was referring to are metaphors for something related? “The movie you were suggesting earlier, is that a porno?”

“Wha—no, no.” The hunter is still laughing. “The Matrix isn’t porn.”

All right then. There are still sigils and cuneiform he needs to draw on Sam, so he begins unbuttoning the hunter’s plaid shirt clumsily. Large warm hands catch his own in a gentle hold — hesitation, uncertainty. “Cas?”

“I need to draw sigils on you. What happens in the Transmuter might involve interacting with Grace.”

“Oh.” Sam blushes, hiding behind his hair. He shrugs out of his shirt, and Castiel begins to paint the sigils.

Minutes pass in silence.

“Um. Cas. Uh..."

He looks up, wondering at the other’s sudden unease. “Sam?” The man is often troubled —it is, after all, a primary aspect of his personality—, but he’d been just fine up until a moment ago.

“I... Um. What about Dean?” Sam blurts at last.

Castiel blinks slowly in incomprehension. “I don’t understand. What about Dean?”

The younger Winchester falters. “Don’t you... Don’t you two... I mean..."

 _Oh._ He finishes the sigils. “What Dean and I share is different.”

Sam nods, seeming to understand. “Right. A more profound bond. You mentioned.”

No, even Castiel can see that Sam doesn’t, in fact, understand, and he’s seized by the rare urge to shake the hunter. “Sam Winchester,” he bites out, gripping the human by the shoulders and looking him in the eyes. “It is... impossible for humans to experience profundities without a soul, and... a bond, by definition, is mutual. _Different,_ Sam,” he repeats, soft and emphatic. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t hear you. I wondered why you stopped praying, thought perhaps it was residual trauma. It wasn’t until I discovered how terribly I had failed you that I realized...” He trails off, anguished. “Sam, the soulless don’t pray. They think, but it’s not prayer because they are incapable of faith. Later, after I realized my mistake, I started listening for your thoughts and voice as well. And through all those decades in the Cage, you never once called for me, Sam. As if you knew I couldn’t help. As if you didn’t want to remind me of your agony. I—”

“Stop.” Sam smiles, blinding, and pulls him close, careful to avoid the sigils. “It’s okay.” The hunter presses a kiss to his brow. “Cas, it’s okay. It’s over. I don’t care about any of that. Honest.”

He obligingly rests his head on a broad shoulder and closes his eyes, inhaling a scent he recognizes as uniquely Sam. It’s taken a long time to see this for what it is, even longer to act on it —circumstances kept getting in the way— but finally, he has found peace. It’s nothing like the peace he had in Heaven in the early centuries, back —he supposes— before Father left, but it completes him just the same.

“We should go in,” Sam murmurs after several moments, sounding reluctant.

He nods, pulling away and reaching up to draw Sumerian cuneiform on the other’s forehead in his blood. “Draw these on mine.” He hands Sam a piece of paper with the correct glyphs on them.

Sam obeys, and they stand, hands intertwined. Castiel gets the potion, and Sam nods. They step inside the Transmuter. There’s... a shift. Subtle, like a change in the wind. Then they’re suddenly in a garden — breeze, birdsong and the warm afternoon sun. Idyllic.

“This is... Heaven. My favourite one,” Cas observes quietly, looking around. “Minus its owner.”

Sam smiles, looking up at the blue sky, and the sun sets before his eyes. Still in the same garden, the night sky glitters with a thousand stars. “I used to think the stars were angels watching over us.”

Castiel turns to him. “There are... perhaps a few occasions upon which you would have been right about several, but stars are most often merely what your astronomers say they are.”

“If there were any romance left to be destroyed..."

If Sam had to take a guess on the thoughts that next went through Castiel’s mind in quick succession, they would be: I regret that we left such a terrible impression; oh Father, I’ve killed them all; Naomi.

Because, suddenly, it’s raining feathers, and the garden is littered with corpses surrounded by black scorch marks in the shape of wings, and a brunette in a grey suit is striding purposefully towards them, stepping carefully over and around the bodies.

“Naomi,” Cas grits, voice dripping with anger and —Sam didn’t think it was possible until now— hate.

“Castiel, what do you think you’re doing?” she demands. “ _Look_ at what you’ve done. There is blood here everywhere now. By _your_ hand. And yet, you still refuse to let me fix you.”

Sam instinctively angles his body in front of Castiel’s despite knowing that the other doesn’t really need his protection. “By causing more bloodshed?” He sneers. “You have a funny idea of fixing.”

Without even sparing him a glance, she flicks her wrist and throws him out of the way to descend on Cas who promptly dives after him. There is a moment in which he contemplates the horrifying possibility that he might die before completing all the trials, that Dean would have to do them alone, and a moment is all it takes because Death is suddenly walking towards him. He scrambles to stand just as Cas breaks the potion bottle on the ground at their feet and pulls him close in the salty fumes.

“Say it with me,” the angel whispers urgently in his ear and begins chanting the Sumerian protection spell.

He just repeats the syllables, closing his eyes to keep from getting distracted by the sight of Death and Naomi swiftly bearing down on them. _We have time,_ he tells himself, chanting along. _They’re still far away._

Then the spell is finished, the cuneiform burns briefly on his forehead, and there’s the rush of displaced air accompanied by two grunts. When he opens his eyes, he is cocooned in wings. They are a silvery dark grey, majestic, then they shift, and all at once, they’re white and black and grey and silver — it’s as if each feather changes colour as he looks upon it, liquid gunmetal glistening in the moonlight. He’s reaching out to touch them without thinking, forgetting even to ask for permission, and they flex powerfully beneath his hands, long feathers slipping through his fingers.

“God... Cas, they’re beautiful,” he breathes, reverent, watching the colours shift.

Cas sighs his name, and Sam turns into the kiss without hesitation, catching Castiel’s bottom lip between his teeth and letting his eyes drift shut. It’s like careening —slowly, deliberately—, like collapsing into an ocean of stars, deep as the endless night. The scratch of stubble is rough on his skin, the brush of feathers downy soft all around him. It tastes like communion, and he feels blessed at last, as if the fire searing through him is purifying his soul. He holds his angel to him tightly and doesn’t think about who’s clinging to whom as his back hits the grassy ground.

Cas falls atop him, warm skin on skin, and twines fingers in his hair. “Open your eyes, Sam,” he whispers, a hushed laugh to the words, and Sam does. Blue eyes glow with ethereal light as they sail through a kaleidoscope of the universe.

“This is..."

“Thanks to you, humanity will survive to someday build a spaceship that will allow them to see these parts of my Father’s creation. Because you fought Lucifer in your head and won. That is what makes you best suited for this, Sam. Naomi could never hold a candle to the Morningstar.”

He turns away to hide a self-deprecating smile. “I had Dean then.”

Castiel nods, rising. “As you do now. As I have you. In this, as ever, it is you who tends to me.”

He lets the angel pull him to his feet and wrap a wing around him. “Were you ever one of them?” he asks, changing the subject. “The stars watching over us.”

Out of a passing star, a pegasus trots towards them, white and sleek, its wings outstretched and its eyes an incongruous deep red. It stops before them, and Cas reaches out to pet it with his free hand, smiling fondly as he combs his fingers through its long mane.

“Often in the last two thousand years. I have always found your ways... fascinating. I... prefer to walk amongst you as I did in ancient times. So much cannot be learned by merely watching from afar. But we were not allowed on Earth until... well, until you met me. So I could do little else.”

The pegasus licks the hand petting it. Grey wings curl more snugly around them both. Sam breathes in the scent of oud and ozone mixing with Castiel’s familiar scent and presses the hand in his to his lips. Perhaps they can stay this way —happy, together— forever. He’d like that. He turns his attention to the circular wall surrounding them, the wall presumably keeping Death and Naomi out. Half is red; the other half is white.

“I’m guessing we should mix these up?” They walk together to where the two colours meet.

The angel looks thoughtfully at it. “Yes. It should be easy, if we’re willing.” He pushes a row of bricks to the side almost experimentally, shifting two white bricks into the red half with little difficulty.

Sam barely represses a twitch. There’s a niggling feeling inside his head — uncomfortable, invasive, and yet familiar. After having to repeatedly fight for his own headspace, it takes some effort not to fight this.

“Sam.” Castiel turns him urgently so they are face to face, looks up at him, serious and intense. “Let me ask you once again: Is this what you want? You don’t have to do this.”

No, but he would never suffer a loved one to be used against his will; he knows that horror first hand. He drops his forehead to rest on the other’s and says simply, “You know I’d die for you.”

Castiel’s expression morphs into something between a crooked smile and a grimace. “Of course. You’d... kill me even. To spare me pain.”

He pulls away. “Cas—”

The angel shakes his head emphatically, no. “I am _tired_ of your sacrifice, Sam,” he interjects with heartfelt honesty. “Stay with me. These ‘trials.’ I won’t let them kill you.”

Sam nods, reaching out to slide the row of bricks further to the left. “I know.”

The alien feeling grows, and ignoring his instinct, he welcomes it, draws it in. Easily enough, a row of red bricks is completely replaced with white and vice versa. They take alternate rows; each moves more easily than the last. Then they move in opposite semicircles, taking the bottom brick out of alternate columns to place on top. Finally, they shift each alternate row half a brick to the right. The wall is a perfect mix of white and red now. Despite the initial discomfort, Castiel’s presence fits like a glove in his mind, like _perfection_ , and he finds himself wanting more, wanting everything.

Cas calls his name, a warning, but he’s already falling through white light.

When he can see again, he’s in a shining hallway looking out on a garden. He’s seen the garden before, but there’s a golden river winding through it that he didn’t see when he was last there. There’s... singing in his ears, and he doesn’t understand the song, but it brings tears to his eyes, and he feels... _young_. So young, so small, and yet, so much a part of everything, so _loved_. A beautiful warmth fills him, and he thinks he understands.

“Was it a Thursday?” he asks Castiel who is suddenly behind him.

“I don’t know. Perhaps. Angelic reckoning and perception of time is very different.”

He chuckles as the angel’s arms and wings wind around him from behind. “It would only be fitting.”

“Sam. What you... desire, it’s... a natural extension of what we’ve done. I—I would give it to you. Unreservedly. But you must understand what it means.”

“You’d know,” he answers simply, closing his eyes and leaning into the embrace. He does understand. There’s nothing left to hide. And he longs for it, to know his angel in return. “If I had any doubt, Cas, you’d know.”

Castiel buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, and an ethereal white light suffuses Sam’s entire being. The sigils on his chest burn gold, but the pain seems so very distant. A spark zips through him, and he gasps, the strength leaving his body. It’s powerful. Sacred. A rush of every emotion. And he can’t decide whether to laugh or cry or scream or sigh.

“Cas,” he breathes at last. Because nothing else means anything in this moment, “Castiel.”

The angel’s hold tightens minutely. “Father,” he chokes out, sounding utterly and thoroughly wrecked. Then more intensely, “ _Sam._ ”

And everything explodes in a blinding white light.

~*~

When Dean comes in with a wet mop at a quarter past seven, he finds Sam and Castiel unconscious on the floor side by side. He nearly drops the mop.

“Sam?!”

Panic rising, he runs forward and quickly cleans off an entire section of the circle before really dropping the mop and rushing to his brother’s side. “SAM.” He shakes him. “SAMMY!”

The younger Winchester stirs. “Dean.”

Beside him, Castiel opens his eyes, and they sit up as one. Dean sags back on his knees in relief.

“Jesus Christ, Sam. I keep telling you not to pull this kinda crap on me.” He runs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “So. Did it work?”

Sam and Cas exchange glances. Sam turns back to him.

“One way to find out,” he says, climbing to his feet and letting Castiel steady him.

Dean nods, standing as well, as Sam picks his discarded shirt up from the corner he’d left it in and puts it on while Cas takes his own pile of clothes out with him.

“Bathroom,” preempts his question of where the angel thinks he’s going, and Dean raises an eyebrow at his little brother. “He needs to wash off the sigils,” Sam explains, misinterpreting, and he supposes it’s a logical conclusion.

They head out to the hallway to find Cas exiting the nearest bathroom, fully dressed. The angel stops them both with a hand to their chests. “Wait.” Pain flares for a moment, then Castiel steps back. “I renewed the Enochian sigils on your ribs in case they’ve healed some,” he explains, falling in step.

They nod, and Sam leads the way to the door. The younger Winchester squares his shoulders as he reaches for the handle, looking to his brother for confirmation.

“Now or never.” Dean inclines his head. “Go for it.”

Sam takes a deep breath and exhales it. Beside him, Castiel indicates that he’s ready.

“Okay,” he says, more for himself than anyone else. “Okay.”

He opens the door, and they step out into the cool evening air one at a time, climbing the stairs to circle the Impala. For a moment, they simply stand there. Then Cas disappears.

“Cas?!” Dean calls, concern warring with suspicion as he searches around. “Damn it!” He kicks a stray pebble on the road in frustration.

Feeling nothing, Sam puts a hand on Dean’s arm placatingly as he leans against the Impala to wait. “He needs to use his powers for Them to find him,” he explains calmly.

“And if They catch him? How are we going to find him again?”

That’s when he feels it, the pull in his mind. He yanks back sharply, and Cas reappears, falling clumsily into his arms. He ducks his head, embarrassed, as he steadies the angel. _Shit. Sorry, sorry,_ he sends as Cas straightens and steps away. _I’ll um...be more careful with that next time._

Cas shakes his head, smiling slightly as he turns to Dean. “It’s working,” he assures the hunter.

Sam nods confirmation when Dean glances at him, and the older Winchester visibly relaxes and brightens with relief. His grin is infectious, and Sam can’t help but mirror it as he crosses his arms.

“All right!” Dean enthuses, slapping his thighs decisively. “Who’s up for burgers?”

Sam feels more than sees the way Cas lights up to his left and chuckles. “I also promised Cas we’d watch The Matrix,” he tells Dean, pushing off from the car to follow his brother back inside.

“Awesome! It’s about damn time we rewatched that.”

“Get this. Cas here,” he adds in a stage whisper, tipping his head pointedly, “thought it was a porno.”

“What? Seriously? Wait.” Dean halts, looking back at them like he just had an epiphany. “Actually...”

“Dean...” he warns because he knows he doesn’t want to hear this.

“What?! It could be! You know, metaphorically or some shit.”

Sam shakes his head in fond exasperation as Dean opens the door. “You’re disgusting.”

He holds the door open for Castiel who tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek as he passes. _Thank you, Sam,_ he hears, and it makes him blush for some reason, but Cas doesn’t remark on that, following Dean inside. Sam looks up at the darkening sky one last time in defiance.

They’ve won this one.

He smiles and shuts the door behind him.

~*~

After bacon cheeseburgers, apple pie and microwaved popcorn on the couch, the end credits of the Matrix are playing on the big television screen they’ve hooked his laptop up to, and Sam watches with mild amusement as Dean turns expectantly to Cas as if to ask, “Well, how awesome was that?” He can feel the angel thinking very hard about the movie he has watched intently in complete silence, and Sam wonders if Cas is going to share the parallels and conclusions he’s drawn with the class.

At Dean’s pointed look, Cas suddenly realizes he’s expected to say something, and obliges with “I think I understand. The choice between the red and blue pills represents the choice between fate and free will, ignorance and knowledge. The movie refers to Neo as the One prophesied to save humanity, comparing him to Yeshua, and yet, Neo is more of a Gnostic messiah, liberating humans from their ignorance. Th—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, man,” Dean, who has gaped through the last few sentences, cuts in, holding up a hand. “You watch the world’s most awesome cyberpunk movie, and _that’s_ your takeaway?”

Cas tilts his head. Dean drops his hand. Sam stifles a laugh.

_Am I mistaken?_

Sam shakes his head, still muffling his laughter with his hand. _No. No, you’re exactly right. Just... That wasn’t what Dean was asking,_ he sends back.

“Oh. W—”

“Stop, stop, stop.” Dean shudders and grimaces. “I don’t want to be thinking about that every time I rewatch this now.”

Leaning back and grinning, Sam asks, “Did you enjoy it though?”

The angel nods. “Yes. It was... thought-provoking.”

This cheers Dean considerably. “At least one thing’s right up there then,” he decides with a grin.

Cas frowns, confused. “I think most things are r—oh.” He smiles as he finally gets the turn of phrase. “You mean you approve of my enjoying the film. Um... Thank you, I suppose.”

Looking at the smiling faces of the duo in the room with him, Sam is surprised by the warmth he feels, or rather by how long it’s been since he felt this way. For the first time since... since Jess died, he feels happy. Not just comforted —comforted was what he had with Amelia—, but _happy_. At home. Somewhere along the way, he thinks, he and Dean —no, all three of them (because Cas has been family ever since he chose them over his brethren during the Apocalypse a few years back) have forgotten how to be family in all but the worst of times. He misses this, these moments in which family is more than just a solitary lighthouse in a sea of tragedy, and God knows Cas deserves some happiness after giving up everything he had to save a species he didn’t even belong to.

Cas turns to look at him sharply at that, and he ducks his head. _Go on,_ he offers resignedly, feeling reproached. _Tell me I’m being presumptuous again. That wasn’t even kind._

The angel blinks. _I’d be happy to tell you that if that’s what you want to hear, but that’s neither the truth nor what I think. The fact is I did not know happiness until I fell. It is a human condition._

Dean cocks his head, looking between them suspiciously. “Something you want to tell me, Sammy?”

“As a result of the connection we established in the Transmuter, Sam and I can now hear each other’s thoughts,” Cas explains before he can even think the words coherently.

Dean looks between them again. “So you two can...” He gestures in a vaguely circular motion. “Okay, no. No, don’t tell me.”

Sam crosses his arms and gives his brother a Look. “Really, Dean?”

The older man grimaces and shudders. “Look, man, I don’t want to know.” With that, Dean stands and stretches. “Well, I’m beat, so I’m heading to bed. See you in the morning.”

Off a table to the side, he picks up what looks like an old magazine. Despite Dean’s hurriedly putting it out of Castiel’s line of sight, Sam catches sight of the title, ‘Voluptuous Asian Lovelies,’ on the cover. Dean has been slowly sorting the artifacts in the bunker since they moved in, and Sam is willing to bet this is his brother’s favourite discovery to date. He raises an eyebrow.

Dean only winks as he heads for his room. “Only thing missing here is the Magic Fingers, I tell you.”

Sam rolls his eyes, rising as well, and walks over to put his laptop to sleep before turning to Cas and extending his hand. Castiel looks at it in question before realizing that it means he’s invited this time, that Sam wants him to come along even if he’s just going to watch, even if it might take some getting used to. He takes it, letting Sam pull him to his feet and lead him.

It’s easy, he reflects, to love Sam.

Sometimes, in the early days of their acquaintance, he’d marvelled at the irony — Lucifer’s vessel with such faith and piety, Michael’s vessel with such skepticism and iniquity; once, he’d resented that the Righteous Man he’d raised from perdition wasn’t the Winchester that showed him such reverence. But that had been brief. The friendship that had grown between them is worth far more than that. And what he has with Sam, now that he can define the feeling, makes him happy.

Backing towards his room, Sam grins. _So. Do you really think that Morpheus, Neo and Trinity remind you of Dean, me and you?_ he asks, never breaking eye contact.

_Yes. Did you not see the resemblance?_

The hunter ducks his head slightly and admits, _Never thought about it before. Did you kiss me when you brought me back?_ Still in that flirty, teasing tone.

 _No,_ he answers matter-of-factly. _I didn’t know that was what I wanted at the time._

When he was first warned of his unusual empathy for the Winchesters, he hadn’t understood the feelings or how they differed. Dean is a good man, his charge, his friend, his brother. But Sam... As an angel, he couldn’t help but admire the boy’s struggle towards salvation, couldn’t help but condemn the infernal ways he had taken to in his ignorance. And yet, despite their history and his own troubles, Sam was always caring, concerned, comforting, never frustrated when Castiel couldn’t help, always praying —and not only to his Father, but also to him. 

He had still been surprised to wake up to Sam hovering over him with a cool towel when he’d collapsed after their trip to the past, surprised that pillowing Sam’s head on his lap and carding his fingers through long brown hair eased the withdrawal symptoms of demon blood. But when Dean took off to say yes to Michael, he had been downright flabbergasted to find that Sam hadn’t immediately stolen another car and chased after his brother. Instead, the hunter stayed, stayed to ask if there was anything he could do to help take the pain away, stayed to tell him they couldn’t give up because if there’s a will, there’s a way and they’d already lost enough. In hindsight now, he thinks that might have been when he truly fell for Sam, but back then, he hadn’t known it for what it was, much less how to express it. It had taken a long time, first to acknowledge that he wanted something for himself, and then to determine what exactly it was he wanted from Sam and Dean.

Sam lets his hand go to close the door behind them. _Oh? And when did you realize?_ He sits down on the bed, looking up with playful curiosity.

Castiel closes the distance between them, slips between Sam’s knees and laces his fingers loosely behind the human’s neck. _When I kissed the demon, Meg, and wanted it to be you instead._

Sam gapes up at the angel, stunned. While he had certainly been making a romantic overture, it hadn’t been with physical intimacy in mind. Hearing his thoughts, Cas immediately pulls away, making it clear that he hadn’t misinterpreted. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s waist to stop him.

 _It just never occurred to me that you might be interested in this._ he explains. Sure, he had seen the angel watch porn, even kiss Meg, but he’d always assumed it was... call it scientific curiosity. He’d never imagined Cas would want to actually engage in sex and with him, of all people.

 _Of all people?_ Castiel repeats the thought incredulously, pushing him by the shoulders to lie back on the bed. _Stop devaluing yourself needlessly, Sam,_ the angel chides with more than a little irritation, climbing atop him for a kiss. _Never anyone else._

And, oh God, the gravity of the last sends his blood rushing south like nothing and no one else. He returns the kiss eagerly, pushing the tan trench coat out of the way. He hasn’t been with a man since Stanford, and he’s found he generally prefers women, but in this moment, he has confirmed with absolute certainty that he’d want Castiel in any form.

 _In this, Sam, we are alike,_ Cas tells him, pressing slightly chapped lips to his Adam’s apple as their clothes vanish. _It is not this act that matters to you. Your feelings wouldn’t change if this never happened. And yet, the sense of... shared intimacy this interaction creates, it brings out something beautiful in your soul. It is uniquely human and... beyond my understanding. But I want it for you._

He flips them over, brushes his lips over his lover’s five o’clock shadow, trails kisses down Castiel’s neck, and knows without asking that this will be different from being with another human. He clearly remembers the clinical detachment with which Castiel had noticed his vessel’s arousal while watching the pizza man. Perhaps angels feel physical sensations somewhat distantly in a vessel.

 _You are correct,_ the angel confirms, tilting his head up to allow better access.

“Then tell me what works,” he murmurs against the shell of his lover’s ear.

 _That,_ Castiel answers with a gasp. _With our connection, I can... access your perceptions._ He seems to struggle with not only the words, but even the meaning he’s trying to convey — it’s all so new. _But... what makes this... pleasurable? To_ me _is your... intent._

He pulls away to look at the other in disbelief. “Fuck, Cas, are you saying I can give you an orgasm just by wanting it?”

The angel only winces at his blunt phrasing, but the way blue eyes fall shut with a soft moan at the sharp spike of want and adoration that follows the revelation is answer enough.

“God, Cas,” he groans, impossibly turned on by the mere idea, mouthing his way down his lover’s torso reverently. When he reaches it, Cas is already hard, and Sam takes him into his mouth, hopes fervently to please. It elicits a whimper as pale fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. He begins stroking himself as he swallows and is rewarded by his angel arching off the bed and crying out his name as his pleasure is shared. And just like that, he wants more; it’s not enough. _Cas, I want—_

“Yes,” Castiel cuts in breathlessly, knowing he wants to hear it aloud. “Yes. Anything. Please.”

The lube in the nightstand appears in his hand as soon as he wants it, and the other rolls over to let him kiss his way up his spine as he slips a slick finger in. He knows, of course, that it’s unnecessary, but he wants to, wants it to be good, painless, _perfect_ , and that has Castiel keening in pleasure beside him and turning to pull his hand away and wrap it around himself. Then Cas kisses him again, licks into his mouth and caresses his tongue like an old lover as he sheaths Sam in one quick motion, straddling his hips just _so_ , and Sam can’t hold back his shout of surprised pleasure.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, crushing the angel to him roughly and nipping light marks into his neck. They know, certainly, without words, without conscious thought, but the sheer intensity of the feeling makes him want to shout it from the rooftops, makes Castiel gasp his name in that utterly wrecked voice he wants to hear again and again and again, forever.

 _Forever,_ Cas agrees, the thought ringing loud and clear in Sam’s head with its conviction, and then he’s coming —sharp, sudden and white-hot— and there’s that spark again, only this time, it’s pure, unadulterated joy. And when he comes down from it, he realizes they are literally glowing.

 _We’re not,_ Castiel assures him with an amused half-smile, shifting off him and settling against his side. _You are merely seeing for the first time what was always there._ With a thought, both their bodies and the sheets are clean, all trace of their activities gone, and the blanket is covering them.

_Do you always—_

_No,_ Castiel answers before he has even completed the question. _I can normally perceive intent, but not experience it. Only with a connection like this. And even then, only... when we are both completely open._

Wordlessly, the clarification comes that it is possible to adjust how much is actively shared. Cas limits it to thoughts and feelings currently within focus to prevent a constant overload of information. Sam can learn to control this as well, and as soon as he desires the knowledge, he has it. He wraps an arm around Cas, fingers idly tracing circles on a pale hip, and his lover hums in contentment, then falls terribly sad. _Oh._ It is possible that they may not have forever. Either one of them could permanently die, for instance, and with things so far out of order, even Castiel no longer knows what follows death for them now. Perhaps they will go where they cannot reach each other. The thought is a grim one, and Sam pushes it away. All they can do is make the best of what they have. And it is humbling that the angel is even seriously thinking about an eternity together.

 _I wasn’t aware that it’s... uncommon for humans to think of spending the rest of their natural lifespan with a loved one._ The thought is at once teasing, affectionate, chiding.

He fights to stay awake just a little longer. _It’s not. Our natural lifespan is just much shorter._ Sensing disappointment, he hurriedly clarifies, _No. No, no, I want to, Cas, of course I do. I’d rather be in Hell or Purgatory with you than in Heaven without you. It’s an honour. Don’t be silly._ The alarm has chased the sleep from his eyes, and he’s suddenly wide awake. He grins, shifting so they are facing each other. “Tell me a bedtime story,” he says playfully.

In the dim light, Castiel’s eyes glow like they did in the Transmuter. _You’re the one being ‘silly.’_ A hand comes up to press lightly to Sam’s brow, healing him. _Rest, Sam._

He catches his angel’s hand and presses the knuckles to his lips. _Please._ The request wasn’t entirely in jest. _About you or things you’ve seen. Until I fall asleep._

Cas sighs, but his exasperation is half-hearted, and indulges him with random anecdotes, shares little known facts sotto voce about people and places that Sam has only read about, whispers old stories into his dreams. Together, they visit different lands and eras, Castiel telling him about them as they walk, and when he wakes, he feels like he’s known his angel for thousands and thousands of years.

~*~

Dean is serving up stir fry for breakfast when they enter the central area together, and Sam immediately gets to work skimming the day’s news on his laptop. They read about dead bodies showing up all over the Midwest over the past week. There’s Benton, Indiana; Downers Grove, Illinois; Novi, Michigan; and then again in Lincoln Springs, Missouri just the night before. Each of the victims had severe burns around their eyes, hands, and feet, puncture wounds through the backs of their hands, eyes and internal organs liquefied. He senses the horror that doesn’t show on Castiel’s face and immediately surmises what it is.

“Angelic smiting,” he whispers aloud.

There is an uncomfortable pause before Cas grimly confirms “Yes. Undoubtedly on Naomi’s orders. We must go. They’re torturing demons, looking for the tablet. We mustn’t let them get to it.”

Sam stands. “Of course. I’ll get my gear.” He catches sight of Dean scowling pointedly at the food and sits down again. “Unless, of course, we could spare a little time to eat?”

Castiel catches on to the thought quickly. “I suppose a few minutes is...acceptable,” he concedes grudgingly, taking the chair beside Sam and resting his head on his hunter’s shoulder.

Dean raises an eyebrow as Sam begins wolfing down his plate of beef strips, onions, peppers and rice. He sits down to join them just as Sam feeds Cas a spoonful of food and clears his throat.

“So.”

They turn to him as one in question.

He swallows a large mouthful of rice and stir-fry before grinning mischievously. “You finally tapped that feathery ass, Sammy?”

Sam nearly chokes on some rice, and Cas frowns as he pats the hunter on the back to get the grains out of the human’s windpipe. He understands the reference for once; it’s Sam’s reaction he doesn’t get.

“Dude, what is wrong with you?” Sam chides, mentally supplying that _People don’t normally talk about their sex lives with their families._

“What’s wrong with me? You kidding me?” Dean leans forward eagerly. “So. Did you,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, “or not?”

Cas blinks, more confused than before. “We engaged in anal intercourse, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dean drops his fork in a clatter to hold up his hand. “Whoa, _way_ too much information, man.”

Finishing his breakfast, Sam crosses his arms and levels a challenging look at his brother. “You asked.”

“Not for details, I didn’t.” The older Winchester leans back in satisfaction, clearing his plate. “Ah, would you look at my baby bro, all up in angel now.”

Sam groans, thunking his head on the table. “Shut up, jerk.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he stiffens. He hasn’t— They haven’t— since...

But Dean just laughs at him. “As if I’d ever let you live that down, bitch.”

Sam sits up. Maybe it’s the word. Maybe it’s the inflection. But it makes him smile like he hasn’t in too many years. It’s okay. It’s really okay. He has Dean _and_ Cas, and it’s really okay.

The angel reaches out to take his hand. “Our time grows short, Sam. Can we leave now?”

Right. Of course. The tablet. They stand and bustle around packing their supplies. Sam doesn’t have to say that they’re done; Cas falls in step beside him as they head for the door. As soon as they’re outside, the seraph reaches out to press two fingers to their foreheads, and Dean immediately steps out of range.

”Nuh-uh, we’re driving.”

The look Cas turns on him is one of great patience worn thin. “Those are hours we cannot afford, Dean.”

“Hey,” Sam cuts in, a hand on Castiel’s arm. “If you teleport us in, will the other guy notice?”

The angel grows pensive. “The other angel? Perhaps,” he admits reluctantly. “If I use my powers, Naomi will certainly notice, and she will inform whomever she sent.”

“What about the demons? Will they notice too? Is the element of surprise worth four hours in the car?” the younger Winchester asks with tentative hope, and while his logic is sound, Cas wonders why he bothers saying anything but what he really means, which Cas can hear loud and clear.

Cas sighs fondly. “Perhaps. Sam, I...” It’s difficult to say no in the face of Sam’s earnest fear that all good things for him are short lived. “Yes,” he relents at last. “Just drive quickly, Dean.”

The older hunter rolls his eyes. As if he needs to be told.

~*~

As they drive into Lincoln Springs, Sam produces a list of the victims. “So let’s go find out more about the last victim, Ann Morton, from the police.”

“No,” Castiel answers quietly, looking around. “There are demons here. We should interrogate them directly.” Up ahead, they spot a house with the door left open. “There.” Cas points. “Hurry.”

He vanishes before they can respond, and they quickly pull up by the house and leap out of the car to run to the door. As they reach the driveway, a man comes running out, and on instinct, Sam begins reciting the exorcism. The man flinches, eyes turning black, and Dean seizes the opportunity to stab him in the gut with Ruby’s knife. Sam catches the falling man and helps Dean haul him back into the house to join their angel. When they arrive, there are two men down in the living room, and Cas is dragging a strangely dressed lady with her hair in curlers with him to the kitchen. They set the third down on the nearby sofa and enter the kitchen to find the lady tied to a chair and table within a devil’s trap etched into the tiled floor.

“Why are you looking for the angel tablet here?” the angel is asking as they arrive.

“Heh... You don’t know anything, do you?” the demon taunts.

Quick as lightning, Castiel’s blade is in his hand, and he’s impaled the demon’s hand on the table. She screams, pants and whimpers, and he pulls it back out, sparks flying. “Let’s try this again.”

“I thought angels were supposed to be the good cops,” she spits.

Cas stabs her other hand, and Sam winces as she screams, “The crypts! The crypts!! Stop! Stop!! Lucifer’s crypts! Crowley thinks Lucifer stashed it in one of ‘em!”

“Who told you about them?” Cas asks pulling the blade out. When the demon hesitates, he makes to stab a little higher up the arm.

“Wait! Wait!! We have a hostage!” She heaves a sigh of relief when the angel moves the blade away. “It’s one of Crowley’s pets. She’s at the Murray Hotel, down by the interstate. She knows the towns where all the crypts are buried. She saw them all back in the day.”

Cas looks at them. They look at the demon.

“Well,” Dean begins. “I guess you now have two options: we can exorcise you back to Crowley or we can kill you right here. What’s it gonna be?”

She looks from one brother to the other. “No option three?”

Sam shrugs as Dean answers, “Afraid not.”

“Gah, Winchesters,” she groans. “Fine. Kill me. Anything is better than Crowley.”

Cas promptly presses his hand to the lady’s forehead, and her body glows as the demon dies. “The hotel. Now. Let’s go,” he says, vanishing.

“Murray Hotel, Dean, come on!” Sam calls over his shoulder as he runs out of the house.

Dean closes the door behind him, and they hurriedly get into the car to drive out to the Interstate. When they reach the Murray Hotel, the telltale glow of demons being smitten is already flashing in the windows, and by the time they reach the room on the third floor, Cas has already dropped the last of them.

 _I’m sorry,_ he sends when he sees Sam. _Seeing me torture that demon made you uncomfortable._ Aloud, he only says, “The hostage is in there,” nodding his head towards a closed door.

Sam presses a brief kiss to the angel’s temple as he follows Dean to the door, stepping gingerly over the bodies as he crosses the room. When Dean opens the door, they’re surprised to see it’s Meg tied up on the floor, all bloody and bruised. Her hair has also been bleached an unsuitably garish shade of blond.

“Aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper?” she drawls with effort in greeting.

After they untie Meg and set her on the bed, Cas heals what he can of her vessel as they pull up chairs to sit by the bed. He finds some gauze and begins wrapping the wounds he can’t heal, starting with one on her wrist. “These wounds have festered,” he remarks.

“You really do know how to make a girl’s nethers quiver, don’t you?” she ripostes, a little flirtatious, a little sarcastic, and Sam can’t decide which is more disturbing.

Deadly serious, Cas replies, “I am aware of how to do that. Although it doesn’t usually involve cleaning wounds.”

Dean rolls his eyes as if to say, “Yeah, right,” and Sam is absolutely certain he doesn’t want to know.

Meg only looks at the angel with bemused fondness. “Why are you so sweet on me, Clarence?”

Cas thinks for a moment before replying. “I... don’t know.” Perhaps it is gratitude for their time together in the mental hospital. Yet, before that, when he had thought to try a kiss, why had he chosen her, of all people? Their history has few good points. “And I still don’t know who Clarence is.”

 _An angel in an old movie titled “It’s a Wonderful Life,”_ Sam supplies. _It’s a classic, really sweet. If you like, I’d love to watch it with you someday. It’s based on a short story, but I think the movie had more substance._

“Would it kill you to watch a movie, read a book?” Meg asks as Cas finishes dressing her wounds.

“A movie, no,” Cas answers, still completely serious, and Sam can only smile warmly as the angel sends him an image of him lying in Castiel’s arms as they watch a movie together. “But a book with the proper spells... Yeah, it could, theoretically, kill me.”

At this point, Dean has had enough of the bizarre Megstiel going on in the room and pointedly cuts in with, “So, I gotta ask. Um... What’s up with the hair?”

Sam Looks at him as Cas goes to stand guard by the window.

“What?”

Meg turns to Dean. “Aww. Thanks for noticing, Dean, but this wasn’t my idea. It was Crowley’s. And it’s just another reason why I wanna stab him in the face.”

“Wait a second,” Sam cuts in as he processes the day’s events. “You’ve been telling Crowley the location of Lucifer’s crypts.” And if she’s really led Crowley to the Angel Tablet, he swears he’ll kill her, old times, alliance or no.

“What can I say?” she shrugs a little. “I needed a break from the constant torture. And I did visit them all during my time with Yellow Eyes. But don’t worry.” Here she turns to Castiel again. “I haven’t exactly been giving them the Glengarry leads.”

“You mean you've been lying to them?” the angel checks even as Sam silences a sigh of relief. He’s not sure whether he buys that Meg just might have some genuine affection for Castiel, however.

“I just get them in the ballpark. Enough time's passed and enough's changed that they bought it.”

“Why lie?” Dean asks.

She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Buy myself some time, dummy. Try to find a way to get free.”

“Wait, so... A bunch of innocent people died so you could... buy yourself some time?” Sam asks incredulously.

She turns the ‘you’re stupid’ look on him. “Hi. I'm Meg. I'm a demon.”

Impatiently, Cas interrupts with, “So, what have they found?”

Glad to return to the important things, she answers, “Bupkis. Every crypt's been one Al Capone's vault after another. And on top of that, someone kept picking up the trail and icing demons. I'm guessing that was you, Castiel.”

“It wasn’t,” he interjects before she can continue.

She stops. “What? So not only will those demons be back here soon, but we’ve also got a hostile angel on their heels? Who’s up for fleeing?”

“She's right,” Sam agrees. They need to get out of here on the double. “We need to find those crypts before they do. Meg, you're the only one who's been there.”

“We need your help,” Cas adds.

Meg chuckles. “Any of you dummies got a map?”

“My laptop’s in the car,” he offers.

“Hey, why’d you think the demons went after the lady with the crazy hair?” Dean suggests.

Sam nods. “He’s right. We should try there. It’s probably safer than here, at any rate. Anyone would think we were done there.”

With a nod to him, Cas disappears with Meg, and he jogs down the stairs after Dean to the car. They make the quick drive back to the house from earlier and head inside to find Cas and Meg looking at a map spread out on a table. Dean’s guess was right on the money.

“There.” Meg points at a place on the map. “That’s where the crypt was.”

Sam walks over to get a better look in the waning evening light. “Well, according to this, it says that there’s an abandoned building there now.”

“Good times,” Dean cheers. “Let’s roll, campers.”

He almost turns into a tall lady in a black suit, her shoulder-length copper hair framing her pale face and contrasting starkly with the outfit, and staggers back in surprise as she fixes steely grey eyes on him. Before he can react, Sam is shouting his name, Cas grabs him, and the world shifts. Then he’s back in the Impala with Sam telling him frantically to drive, and he floors it without thinking.

The first thing Meg says when they reach the building is “Crowley and his goons will be here soon.”

“Right,” Sam agrees as they quickly climb out of the car. “You’ll stay out here and watch our backs then?”

She smirks as they walk briskly to the door. “When am I not Team Sam?”

“One of you should stay out here to protect Meg,” Cas advises, taking Sam’s hand.

“Since when do I need protecting?” she challenges, but again, it’s more flirtatious than anything else, and Sam is too creeped out to be jealous.

“Since you were held captive and tortured for over a year,” Cas ripostes. _But you would be?_

 _A little,_ he admits, ducking his head, embarrassed. He knows he doesn’t have to be, of course, but it’s the kind of gut reflex he’s trying to quash.

“Touché,” Meg concedes, surveying the area.

Dean, surprisingly, doesn’t object to the message Cas broadcasted loud and clear. “Watch yourselves,” is all he says as he draws Ruby’s knife.

Sam nods, grateful, turning on the flashlight with his free hand. “Yeah. You too. We got this.” Still hand-in-hand, Cas and he enter the building. _How soon before the other angel finds us?”_

 _The next time I use my powers,_ Cas replies, searching the corridor intently as he walks. _Be careful, Sam. Enediel will be prepared this time._

 _You know her?_ he asks, sad that Cas will have to fight, and maybe kill, another sister.

 _I know of her._ The angel stops, feeling the cement wall. _Wait. There's a draft. There's something behind there. Stand back._

When the hunter is ready, he presses his hand to the wall, and energy flows through it. The wall cracks to reveal a dusty, dirty crypt with a vaulted ceiling. They enter, Sam shining his flashlight to look around the room. There are ancient artifacts lying around; everything is covered with dust and cobwebs.

 _That’s it,_ Cas tells him, drawing his attention to a carved wooden chest on a shelf against the far wall. _It’s the only thing in here warded against angels._

He pockets the flashlight and picks the chest up. _Then let’s get out of here._

“I’m afraid I can’t let you take that,” a lady’s voice, clear and sonorous, says from behind them.

“Enediel, we can’t let the tablet fall into the wrong hands.” Cas steps between them protectively as they turn to face the angel from earlier.

“I’m glad we are in agreement, Castiel,” she says pleasantly, lips pressed into a thin smile. “So hand it over and let me take it back to Heaven.”

“You know I cannot do that.” Castiel’s blade slips into his hand. _Sam, go. Protect it from Crowley until I get back._

As Enediel advances on Castiel, blade drawn as well, Sam makes a run for the door, but she hurls him into the wall without so much as a glance. The chest falls from his grasp, and a block of stone falls out as the lid snaps open. Cas parries Enediel’s attack; sparks fly from the blades as they leap back. Cas attacks this time, and she evades, and he dodges her counterattack in the nick of time. As she moves to attack again, for the lack of a better idea, Sam picks up the stone block on the ground and throws it at her. She ducks to avoid it, and Cas seizes the opening to drive his blade into her chest, even as the stone cracks on the floor to a flash of lightning overhead, exposing the tablet. She gasps, shining as her Grace shatters, and Sam steps up behind Castiel for a hug. The angel is so _sad._ Cas leans back, drawing comfort from the embrace, and let’s Sam press a kiss into his hair.

 _You threw it,_ he remarks at length, pulling away to pick up the tablet.

 _They’re durable things,_ Sam defends sheepishly.

As soon as Castiel touches it, the sigils on the tablet shine brightly with a golden light, there’s a flash in his mind, and suddenly, it’s... _lonely._

Cas hesitates, looks at the tablet in his hands, and turns to Sam reluctantly. “Sam, I...”

“Have to go. I know.” The flash told him. He covers the angel’s hands on the tablet. “I felt it before it cut us off. You have to protect it. I understand.” It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to cry, but he won’t.

“I’m so sorry, Sam.” Castiel’s voice breaks a little as he steps forward to bury his face in Sam’s shoulder.

The hunter holds him tightly. “It’s okay. I get it, I do.”

And the worst thing is he does. He really does. And for a fleeting moment, Cas wishes Sam would ask. But he only takes a deep breath and steps back, eyes shining. The tablet tells him he has to go, that enemies are closing in, that he has to keep it safe, but he resists.

“Goodbye, Sam,” he whispers, gripping the tablet tightly. They have a few minutes. This is important.

"Don't say that,” Sam chides, cupping his cheek with one hand. “I'll see you again."

And just like that night before Lucifer, "You know I can't promise you that." It’s simply too sad.

Sam smiles with effort. “Silly angel. Sure you can. You just can't say when.”

Cas can’t help mirroring the expression. It’s way too easy to love Sam, he thinks, and someday, he’d like to come home to this. "Then I’ll see you again, Sam.” His fingers, so skillful on the blade, are clumsy on the buttons of the human’s shirt. He finds the place right over Sam’s heart, just a little below the anti-possession tattoo, and presses his finger in, through to the soul, without warning. Sam hisses at the brief stab of burning pain that shoots through his entire being, but doesn’t even question it. “So I’ll always find you,” he explains, healing the other one last time. “No matter where you are in creation.”

“Can it be reversed to find you?” the younger Winchester asks worriedly. Typical Sam.

“No,” he answers with a soft laugh, shifting closer. It’s a simple tracking sigil only he can use. “I’m not... so careless. Take care of yourself, Sam. I'll always hear you. Even when I can't answer."

"I know," Sam replies simply, and then they’re kissing, and Cas thinks maybe... maybe he’s lived these thousands and thousands of years just for this moment.

“I love you, Sam,” he murmurs because he’s not good with words like Gabriel or Lucifer, and he doesn’t know what he can say to make this better or easier, to not be another case in point of good things never lasting. Then he goes because they’re out of time, and Sam opens his eyes to empty air just as Dean barrels around the corner.

“Sam! Sammy!!” The older hunter looks around. “Where’s Cas?”

“Gone,” Sam answers stoically. “Meg?”

“We gotta go. Now.” Dean ushers him past. “Come on, Sammy. Go, go, go!”

They run out just in time to see Meg stab Crowley in the shoulder with what looks like an angel blade and quickly use the distraction to get into the car. As Dean drives off, Sam turns to see Crowley stab Meg in the stomach with the same. There’s that telltale glow as she dies, and Sam can’t help but feel a sense of loss — all things considered, for a demon, she wasn’t all that bad. He’s by no means _upset_ that she’s dead, but in their lives, even fair-weather friends are in short supply, and he can’t help feeling bad that she did die helping them in the end, as so many others have before.

“So. Wanna share with the class?” Dean asks after several miles of driving through the night in silence.

He turns to his brother. “Um... I don’t know. I think Cas touched the tablet, and it kinda... reset him.”

There’s that itch in his throat again, and he coughs into his hand. There’s blood. Of course there is.

Dean turns to look at him, catches sight of the blood on his palm, and slams his hands on the wheel. “Look, man, stop hiding it from me. I can’t take any more lies, Sammy. From anyone. I need you to be honest with me from here on out.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah. You’re right, Dean. And I will be. I—I just... I guess I just wanted to believe I was okay. I don’t know.”

“Are you?” For once, it’s clear Dean isn’t just asking about his health.

He looks out the window at the stars in the night sky as he reaches for a tissue to wipe his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll live.” _Take care of yourself, Cas. If you ever need any help, you know where to find me._ He glances over at Dean. _To find us._

“Listen,” his brother starts talking again, resolutely keeping his eyes on the road. “I may not be able to carry the burden that comes along with these trials... But I can carry you.”

Sam blinks, then chuckles. “You... realize you kind of just quoted ‘Lord of the Rings,’ right?”

“Come on, man,” Dean protests. “But it's the Rudy Hobbit, all right? Rudy Hobbit always gets a pass.” He scowls as Sam keeps laughing. “Shut up,” he grouses, reaching out to flip on the radio.

Supertramp is on, and Sam spares Meg another thought as the lyrics of “Goodbye Stranger” fill the silence. At the very least, she’s not suffering anymore. A light drizzle starts up, and the patter of raindrops make a soothing background for the song. He glances at Dean again before looking back up at the sky.

Cas will come back. He’s sure of it. And he’ll always have Dean.

Yeah, things will work out. They’re going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this. Please share your thoughts! <3
> 
> P/S: Misha Collins is a fae lord. 8D Back to work I go.


End file.
